The Nightmare Triology
by DannyD
Summary: An old enemy comes to haunt Sentinel and Guide.


  
Chapter One  
Fear  
  
"What do you fear?"  
(The Spirit Guide in "Warriors")  
  
They had never talked about it. Never mentioned the name or the case again. It had   
happened, they had survived, end of story. No need to talk about it. Justice had   
proven itself, and although they were both well aware of the constant danger that   
someone else knew and might someday reveal their secret, the subject never came   
up again. Blair had once tried to bring it up but Jim had just shrugged dismissing   
Blair's thoughts as much ado about nothing. And too proud or stubborn to admit his   
inner fears to even himself, the Sentinel kept his feelings locked inside like a   
precious pearl nobody should ever see.   
  
It was funny that Jim Ellison didn't sense any fear noe as he stared into the cold,   
yet satisfied eyes of Lee Brackett, the only other person in the world besides Blair   
and his captain who knew of Jim's extraordinary sensory abilities. The always   
present fear had become a face.   
  
"It's been a long time," Brackett's smile didn't quite reach his eyes when he spoke.   
"What to you want, Brackett?" Jim asked while three men strapped him down onto   
something resembling an examination table. Metal cuffs restrained his wrists and   
ankles, and soon his head was also immobilized.  
  
Disappointed by the lack of fear despite the threatening situation Jim was in,   
Brackett stepped a little closer.   
  
"Oh, I don't want anything, Mr. Ellison." Brackett checked the cuffs on Jim's   
wrists and, apparently satisfied, sat down on the edge of the table. "I'm just   
fulfilling my part of the contract," he explained.   
  
"What contract?" Ellison insisted, moving his arms and legs to determine the   
strength of his bonds. Unfortunately, they didn't give much.   
  
"Save your strength," Brackett suggested and patted Jim's arm like he was an old   
friend.   
  
"What did they promise you?" A fearful thought came to mind and Jim suddenly   
knew what was going on. The Sentinel - the lab rat. What had only seemed to be an   
exciting story from a top-rated TV series, now was about to become a terrible   
reality.   
  
Brackett nodded in confirmation and said: "*I* promised them a great piece   
merchandise if they dropped the charges against me."   
  
"Merchandise?" Jim repeated, somewhat unbelieving. "You mean me?" God, the man   
was colder than he had ever thought.   
  
"Don't worry, they want to research the extent of your Sentinel powers, just like   
your friend Mr. Sandburg does. Then they'll probably hire you." Brackett chuckled.   
He reached into his pocket and produced something Jim couldn't recognize from   
his point of view.   
  
A distant sound from somewhere outside caught Jim's attention and he turned up   
his hearing to identify the somewhat familiar noise. 'Oh, god!' Jim thought when his   
ears picked up the voice of his guide. Blair must be there too, and Jim strained to   
hear what was going on. Yes, it was definitely Sandburg, and Jim tried to decipher   
the words. The young man was babbling, maybe trying to hide his fear or to distract   
his captors. Listening more carefully, it sounded more like Blair was giving a lecture   
about tribal cultures. -- It almost sounded like a...tape. When Jim realized that   
he'd just walked into a trap, he rushed to turn down his enhanced hearing. Too late!  
An unbearable pain shot through his ears, raging through his head until Jim thought   
he was ready to burst! He pulled at the restraints holding his arms and legs in place   
trying to throw his head from one side to the other to ease the pain. Just doing   
something! Agonizing moments passed leaving the Sentinel breathing ragged and his   
heartbeat racing. While the excruciating sensation slowly faded, his vision caught a   
small item Lee Brackett was holding in his hands.   
  
"You know, Mr. Ellison, I was eager to see how a simple dog whistle would affect   
you. It was a stunning performance I must say." Brackett stowed the instrument of   
torture away. "By the way, you may have noticed that we played a tape of one of   
the lectures Mr. Sandburg gave to make sure you'd open your incredible sense of   
hearing."   
  
His ears still hurting from the ordeal, Jim remembered one of Blair's breathing   
techniques and forced himself to calm down. He turned the level of his sensory   
input as far down as absolutely possible. He could probably avoid more pain by   
maintaining this level. At least he hadn't granted Brackett the satisfaction of   
hearing him screaming.   
  
'Concentrate on your breathing, Jim," he reminded himself, recalling Sandburg soft   
voice when he did.   
  
As if reading his mind, Brackett spoke again. "I'm pretty sure your ingenious friend   
taught you some exercises to prevent things like this from happening but I'm also   
  
confident that Dr. Jusick here can come up with an equally brilliant counter-  
measure." He nodded at a man who had just entered the room. The physician,   
wearing a lab coat and glasses, came over to where Jim was bound.  
  
"It won't work," Jim promised, his ice-blue eyes shifting between the men.   
  
The so-called doctor pulled out a syringe while he was already working at Jim's   
shirt sleeve.   
  
"Don't be such a pessimist, Detective," Jusick said, swabbing a spot on Jim's   
exposed arm. "This little cocktail'll help you relax and enjoy the ride." The needle   
pierced through the skin of Jim's right arm, and he almost instantly felt a burning,   
and began loosing control over his senses and body.   
  
No, please, Jim bit his lip when his vision blurred and his sense of touch suddenly   
registered the cold air brushing over his arms. The drug multiplied his sensory   
awareness and he could do nothing to avoid it!  
  
Jim tore at the restraints, yelling harsh words and fighting the drug as it worked   
its way through his blood stream.   
  
All of a sudden, however, his arms were free and he thrashed around, frantically   
struggling to escape Brackett's trading game. HE HAD TO GET OUT OF THERE!   
  
With all his strength, and sheer will power, Jim grabbed the arm that seemed to   
try to hold him and threw himself at the threatening figure in front of him. HE   
HAD TO GET OUT OF THERE!  
  
The body gave way and Jim rolled off the table, nailing the man to the floor. His   
hands, free of all cuffs now, grabbed the man by the collar and pointed a set of   
hard blows to the his ribcage. Someone - obviously someone in pain that Jim happily   
registered - shouted his name.   
  
"I'm not your willing lab rat, pal," he hissed and felt the body beneath him tensing   
up and grasping at his shirt.   
  
"JIM!"  
  
Someone was calling his name over and over again. Assuming it was Brackett Jim   
didn't listen.   
  
"JIM!"   
  
  
A warm familiarity reached Ellison's scared mind. Jim. That...that was him, wasn't   
it? Jim. The sound of his own name reverberated in his ears. With the sound,   
recognition set in and Jim snapped out of his frightening nightmare!  
  
Blair was pinned down by Jim's heavy body. The struggle had sent them both to the   
floor of Jim's bedroom. Blair clutched his left side where Jim's punches had left   
their marks only seconds ago.   
  
"J--Jim!" The Sentinel stared into Sandburg's panic-stricken eyes when reality hit   
him.   
  
"Oh, my god," Jim groaned and immediately let go of his hurting friend.   
  
"Oh, my god. Oh dear Lord." Jim repeated the word like an mantra, to chase the   
devil of Lee Brackett away. He didn't stir when Blair cautiously shifted himself into   
a sitting position, moaning in pain.  
  
Gently, the anthropologist touched Jim's arm.   
  
"Jim? You...you had a dream." Blair said slowly.   
  
Jim turned towards his guide's voice and shook his head. "That was no dream," he   
whispered, still shaken by the terror and helplessness he'd felt before.   
  
Blair moved a little closer, wincing again when his bruised ribs protested. He had   
never seen his friend like this, so frightened...and so fragile.   
  
"Wanna tell me about the nightmare, Jim?" Blair asked gently, placing a comforting   
arm around Jim's trembling shoulders. The man flinched at the touch, but Blair   
started a subtle stroking.   
  
"It's okay, my friend." He soothed. "It's okay, no one's gonna hurt you. I'm here."   
Slowly, Jim seemed to recognize his surroundings and when he did, he suddenly   
slumped against Sandburg's smaller body replacing the horrible images of the   
dream with Blair's scent and heatbeat.   
  
"Jim?" Blair asked after a few minutes of silence, still stroking Jim's strong back.   
"Did...did I hurt you?" Jim murmured into Blair's clothes.   
  
The young man shook his head although his left side told him otherwise. "I'm fine,   
Jim." He waited a moment before he asked again: "Do you want to tell me what   
happened?"   
  
  
He felt Jim starting to shake again and Blair's hand tenderly brushed over his   
partner's short hair. "Easy, buddy. I'm here to help you, and everything'll be okay."  
  
It took another long minutes before Jim found the strength and courage to talk   
again. It was just one single sentence but it sent shivers down Blair's spine.   
  
"Chief, I'm so...scared."   
  
Jim buried his face in Sandburg's unruly bunch of curls, seeking the warmth,   
comfort and peace he had just lost.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Two   
Shadows  
  
"This is not about you!"  
(Blair Sandburg, "Black and White")  
  
  
The first rays of sunshine chased the shadows of the night away, bathing the   
bedroom in welcomed warmth. With the light, the demons of the dark vanished, and   
Jim almost didn't remember the terrible nightmare that had tortured him only a   
few hours ago. Opening his eyes and adjusting his sensitive vision to the brightness   
of his bedroom, Jim was surprised to realize he had been able to get back to sleep.   
He remembered Sandburg ...and, as he turned his head a little, he found the young   
man sitting on the floor beside his bed, a book in his lap, reading, as if it was the   
most natural thing in the world.   
  
"Did you stay all night?" Jim asked in a raw voice, as he slowly sat up, rubbing his   
eyes and throwing the covers of the bed away.   
  
Blair jerked at little and raised his head, startled by Jim's voice. "Thought you   
might need company," the anthropologist said, closing the book after marking the   
page. "Morning, Jim."  
  
Jim yawned. "Why didn't you go back to sleep after...after the....," Jim faltered for   
a second, not able to utter the word, "....after I fell asleep again," he rephrased.   
Although Blair had urged him to talk about the nightmare, with soothing words in   
his softest Guide voice, Jim hadn't managed to bring it over his lips. The dream   
itself had been awful enough, but what frightened Jim most was that he had never   
felt that way before. Of course, all people were scared of something. Jim was   
anxious he'd be too late to prevent a crime taking place, that Sandburg would get   
hurt in the course of action, or that something would happen to the people he cared   
about. Yes, there was Sandburg again on top of the list, but also his brother   
Stephen, his friends at the station, or little Daryl, Simon's son. Jim Ellison   
greatest fear was that he couldn't protect the people who had grown to depend on   
him, but he couldn't allow himself to be scared of a nightmare, something that   
suddenly decided to emerge from his subconscious, leaving him as timid as a little   
child.   
  
He was afraid of his own fears.   
  
  
  
  
"Oh, it's okay, man," Blair waved dismissively. "I thought you might feel better if   
you sensed my presence near." Seeing Jim's embarrassed grimace, Blair quickly   
added: "I've also wanted to finish this book and you just gave me the opportunity."   
  
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jim looked down at his partner. He felt   
embarrassed. The kid had stayed up all night to protect Jim from the dark clouds   
dancing in his head, and what was worse, Jim was quite uncomfortable Sandburg had   
witnessed last night's play. Now, as the sun came through the blinds of the window,   
illuminating the room in a magnificent warmth, the nightmare was only a vague   
memory, something to laugh about, to joke about maybe, and, most importantly, Jim   
wanted to leave the whole thing alone. Jim stood up, grabbing his robe and heading   
for the stairs. He was surprised Blair didn't follow immediately and he stopped,   
looking back to find his partner still sitting on the floor.   
  
"Are you coming, Chief?" Jim asked.   
  
Blair didn't want to mention it; he didn't want to remind Jim of last night's events,   
but unfortunately, he seemed to have no other choice.   
  
"Uhm, yeah, yeah, I'm coming...," Blair confirmed, putting the book on the floor and   
trying to push himself up, closely watched by the Sentinel's eagle eyes. Blair slowly   
rose to his knees and, even slower, started shifting his legs, hands on the edge of   
the bed for support. He tried to suppress a moan, but Jim was at his side almost   
before the first sound had left his mouth.   
  
"Hey, hey, let me help you," Jim offered, gently pulling Blair to his feet. His face   
was full of concern, suddenly remembering another event of the night. Watching   
Blair's grimace of pain, Jim carefully pushed him down onto the bed, kneeling in   
front of him.   
  
"Let me see it." All gentleness left Jim's voice, knowing he was the reason for his   
friend's discomfort. The dream hadn't been enough, no, he had awakened his   
partner, and, even worse, had hit him because he thought him somebody else. And   
then his partner had stayed up all night to watch him sleep. There was also the   
possibility Blair couldn't have slept himself as Jim's blows had injured him more   
than he was willing to admit.   
  
Jim inhaled sharply, discovering the dark purple-black bruises covering the left   
side of Blair's ribcage. With utmost tenderness, he ran his fingertips over the sore   
spots to check for any serious injuries. Blair held his breath when Jim's hand   
roamed over his side, but he didn't utter word.   
  
"Can you breathe okay?" Jim asked, his voice strained with self-directed anger.   
  
Blair nodded. "I'm fine, Jim," he stressed once again, wishing his partner would stop   
this stupid examination and explain to him what was going on. Somehow, Jim was as   
stubborn as he was. But, what was worse, Blair knew it, and Jim didn't.   
  
"Take a deep breath," Jim ordered, and Blair sighed again but obeyed. It hurt but   
was bearable.   
  
Jim watched his face and was relieved when he didn't see any sign of distress. He   
gently patted on Blair's shoulder.   
  
"Okay, Chief, I think you'll live," he stood as he spoke and offered a hand to help   
Blair. "After you've showered I'll help you put some ointment on it." On his feet   
again, Blair grabbed Jim's hand when the man started to pull away.   
  
"Tell me, Jim," Blair asked calmly, watching Jim's expression change to a frown.   
  
Jim hesitated a second, thinking about the plea, and how good it would feel to talk   
about the dream, but then embarrassment took the upper hand and Jim just jerked   
his hand away.   
  
"There's nothing to tell, Sandburg." He headed for the stairs, away from his   
Guide's persistent glance, and away from the memories of an unfamiliar emotion   
called 'fear'.   
  
***  
  
It was Tuesday, and Sandburg had to teach classes at the university until noon.   
They ate breakfast, made light conversation, and left for their destinations a few   
minutes past eight. Jim was relieved to be alone this morning because Sandburg   
surely would have brought it up again – a conversation that hadn't taken place yet   
and Jim hoped never would. Anyway, the air was clear for a few hours, and the   
detective concentrated on his work.   
  
It was mostly boring but necessary paperwork. Jim was almost grateful when asked   
to attend an autopsy down at Dan's Little House of Horror, as Blair called the ME's   
territory. It was nothing special, not even one of his own cases, but Dan had phoned   
him earlier asking him to come down to have a look. Maybe the man just needed   
company, Jim thought, while heading for the elevator. Only dead bodies from day to   
day must be quite frustrating, although Dr. Wolfe wasn't the kind of guy to dwell   
on his work. Besides, he was always good for a laugh.   
  
What had triggered the nightmare?   
  
  
Startled by the sudden and intrusive thought, Jim hesitated for a second before   
he left the elevator and stepped into the basement. He stood in front of the ME's   
office, uncertain about his next move. Knock or just enter? Ellison shook his head   
to clear the cobwebs clouding his brain. He knocked and moments later, he heard   
Dan's voice.   
  
"Come on in!"   
  
Put a hand on the door handle and open the door. Simple as that, but Jim suddenly   
felt out of place. Thinking about the present became difficult as his mind   
involuntarily wandered back to the events of the night before. What had induced   
his poor brain to scare the hell out of him?   
  
"Get your act together, Ellison," he scolded himself and eventually entered the   
autopsy room.   
  
Maybe it was the fact his enthusiastic anthropologist had come up with a few   
suggestions for a couple of tests to check the range of his sensory awareness the   
other day? And, of course, Jim at first had refused to play the part of the always   
willing lab rat, but Blair had insisted.   
  
Yes, it must be the reason., Momentarily relieved, Jim joined the medical examiner   
at the opposite side of the examination table.   
  
"Hi, Dan!" The ME just raised a bloody hand, and Jim could see smiling eyes behind   
his glasses.   
  
"Hi, Jim! Sorry, can't shake your hand right now," he chuckled.   
  
"No problem," the detective replied, stuffing his own hands into the pockets of his   
pants.   
  
"Blair's not in the mood for this?" Dan asked sympathetically, remembering only too   
well the anthropologist's green face when he attended his last autopsy.   
  
"You scared him off," Jim said and both men laughed. "He has some work to do at   
the university," Jim added, and Dan nodded understandingly.   
  
"I'm always amazed how the kid manages two jobs at a time. Hell, I have enough to   
do with my job here," Dan gestured with the scalpel, and Jim instinctively stepped   
back a little. "I don't know if I would be in the mood or in the shape to do a second   
job all day. Although he doesn't look it, he's a tough guy." Dan drove his hands into   
  
  
the corpse's intestines and, seemingly satisfied with what he found, added a   
comment to his notes.   
  
"You should tell him that," Jim suggested smiling, proud the ME had such a high   
opinion of his friend. "Anything interesting?" he asked, motioning at the victim.   
  
Dan covered the body and took off his gloves, disposing them into the trash. "Well,   
to be honest, I've seen cases much more complicated and even more fascinating   
than this one." The doctor sounded almost disappointed, but Jim knew it was just a   
bad habit to make jokes out of any gruesome situation like this.   
  
Jim leaned against the table crossing his arms over his chest. "And?"   
  
Dan smiled slightly at Jim's short question. The man could put a whole sentence into   
a single word, only varying the tone of his voice. On the other hand, his talkative   
partner, Blair "Chatterbox" Sandburg, never seemed to be able to put all   
information into a single paragraph. But Jim was Jim, and Sandburg was Sandburg.   
No need to change either one of them.   
  
"And....," Dan imitated Jim's voice. "... the poor fellow was shot right in the heart   
and met his death instantly. No time for a scream, a kiss good-bye or even another   
deep breath to prepare himself for the ultimate journey."   
  
"Anything extraordinary, Walt Whitman?" Just out of curiosity Jim focused on   
Dan's handwritten report trying to decipher the details.   
  
"A few bruises on his arms, nothing major. Maybe he hit something or was hit," Dan   
started, reviewing his notes as he talked. "Oh, yes, and he suffered ruptured ear   
drums."   
  
"What?" Another short question, but the medical examiner looked up in surprise   
when he picked up the tone of Jim's voice. Unbelieving or... shocked?   
  
"Uhm, ruptured ear drums," Dan repeated, although he knew Jim had understood   
his earlier statement. "It certainly wasn't the cause of death," Dan explained with   
a worried glance on his face. For some reason the detective had gone pale at the   
mention of the victim's injury. "But if you ask me, I say it looks pretty much like   
some sort of ... interrogation gone terribly wrong." The ME carefully chose his   
words.   
  
Jim's head snapped up. "Torture?" His voice had lost all volume, and Dan raised an   
eyebrow in concern. Jim stared at the corpse covered by the blanket and a small   
shudder went through his body.   
  
"You okay, Jim?" Dan asked finally. He was rewarded by an almost frightened look   
from ice-blue eyes that begged not to question his condition. Dan mentally shrugged   
and continued his report.   
  
"Yeah, could be torture," he confirmed Jim's inquiry. "It's pretty easy to inflict   
pain on your ears. Just about 35 kilohertz will do and you'll scream your lungs out.   
We are not talking about dog whistles here but a pair of headphones connected to a   
stereo or computer, well, I don't want to think about the possibilities. " Dan   
grimaced.   
  
"Dog whistles," Jim murmured, last night's terror flashing through his brain again.   
Lee Brackett had put the whistle to his lips, and the mute sound had almost   
deafened him.  
  
He couldn't control the pain; the dial was gone. All techniques Blair had taught him   
vanished. With his concentration shattered, pain raced through his head, piercing   
his ears, making him lose his balance. And Blair wasn't there to help him.   
  
"Jim?" The doctor grabbed Ellison's arm when he began to sway dangerously. "You   
okay, man?" Dan pulled at the arm. "Here, sit down, Jim. You look like hell." He   
steered him to a nearby chair, but Jim suddenly pulled away from the grip.   
  
"I need some fresh air," he muttered and almost ran out of the lab, away from the   
living reminder of his nightmare and away from the darkness suddenly enveloping   
him again.   
  
****  
  
Shouting over the heads of restless students wasn't exactly a wise idea when you   
had bruised ribs. Blair held his injured side while talking to his students, waving his   
other hand to get their attention.   
  
"Okay, folks, I hope to see you all fresh on Wednesday. Please read the chapter in   
the book..." He stopped for a moment, a little bit frustrated as nobody seemed to   
be listening to what he was saying. Classes were over and everyone was just flying   
out of the room into the sunshine.   
  
"I'll prepare a little test for you...," Blair announced, wondering how many of his   
students had heard the underlying threat. "A test on Wednes...." Okay, give it up,   
Sandburg. They don't want to hear you out, so it's their own fault if they fail with   
flying colors. "Remember that!" he tried one last time before the classroom was   
empty.   
  
  
With a heavy sigh Blair carefully dropped down behind his desk, sorting through his   
notes and adding remarks. He reached down to retrieve a book from his backpack   
and winced when his ribs protested sharply.   
  
"Man, Jim, you got a hell of a punch," Blair muttered under his breath, as he leafed   
through the book.   
  
Reading through a chapter of South American tribal cultures and scribbling notes   
on a sheet of paper, Blair didn't notice his partner silently entering the classroom.   
The Sentinel watched his young friend for a few moments before he spoke.   
  
"Does it still hurt?"   
  
Startled, Blair jumped and looked up at Jim in surprise, his glasses almost sitting on   
the tip of his nose.   
  
"Jim! Wow, I didn't hear you," Blair grinned and took off his glasses. "What do you   
mean?" he asked.   
  
Jim gestured vaguely. "I heard you saying that I got a hell of a punch," Jim smiled   
sadly and crossed the distance between them with a few long strides.   
  
"Oh." Blair thought a moment. "How far away were you when you heard me?"   
  
The older man rolled his eyes in frustration. "Come on, Sandburg," he warned   
smiling. "Didn't you say you gathered enough information for ten dissertations?"   
  
Blair licked his pencil and threw Jim a hurt glance. "Yes, but I'm a scientist, Jim.   
It's my job to gather information." He wrote something down and underlined it   
twice. Absently, he added: "You know bats can hear up to a range of 175 kilohertz.,   
That's pretty amazing and I'm sure your sense of hearing is equally enhanced, if   
not more so." The anthropologist scribbled again. "Just a sec..."   
  
After almost 120 seconds Blair closed his notes and stuffed everything into his   
backpack. "Okay, what's up?"   
  
"I thought we could have lunch together, talk a little and just be lazy ," Jim said,   
not quite sure why he came here or if he even wanted to eat. He couldn't explain it,   
but the simple presence of his Guide made him feel safe and ...protected.   
  
****  
  
  
  
The two men decided to go for a hot dog and a walk through the nearby park. Blair   
wasn't thrilled about the idea, but he felt something was really bothering Jim so he   
gave in, and they ruined their bodies with unhealthy stuff. They walked, ate and   
watched the people occupying the park at lunch time. Jim was silent, nothing new,   
and Blair had never found it easy to struggle with a hot dog, walk and talk at the   
same time, so he just kept strolling beside his friend. Children crossed their way,   
yelling and making fun of each other. Now and then a walker taking his dog out   
invaded their space. All in all, it was a relaxing atmosp...  
  
"HELP! Help me!" a female voice cut through the peaceful moment, and   
simultaneously Jim and Blair turned their heads towards the scream, reacting on   
instinct.   
  
Only a few yards away, an elderly woman sat on the cold stone walkway, seemingly   
pushed down by someone. One of her hands covered her mouth in horror and the   
other pointed to a fleeing figure.   
  
"He stole my bag!" the woman yelled in an anguished voice. Other people walked by   
and nobody seemed interested in helping her, some of them even looked at her in   
indignation because they felt disturbed in their lunch break.   
  
"Help her!" Jim shouted at Blair, already sprinting after the thief.   
  
Following his partner with his eyes, Blair approached the now crying woman. She   
still sat on the walkway, probably shocked, and Blair knelt down at her side.   
  
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his tone similar to the guide voice he used to   
shake the Sentinel out of a zone-out. The concern in his voice seemed to reinforce   
her tears, and she covered her face with both hands.   
  
"He...he...just grabbed....my bag.....," she sobbed, not actually realizing there was   
someone beside her now.   
  
Blair searched his pockets for a handkerchief, found a crumpled one, and offered   
it. "Sorry, this is all I have," he smiled, and put his arm around her shaking   
shoulders. She mumbled something sounding like 'thank you', and Blair tenderly   
pulled her closer. Her sobs subsided as she gratefully leaned against the young man.   
  
"Don't worry, ma'am, my friend will catch the guy," Blair promised and looked up to   
see Jim still racing after the man, closing in with each step.   
  
"My name's Blair," he introduced himself when she finally met his gaze.   
  
  
"Josephine Williams," she supplied her name and, with Blair's help, stood. He   
steadied her with one hand still wrapped around her shoulders, asking: "You sure   
you're okay?"   
  
Josephine nodded and sniffled into Blair's handkerchief a few times. "Thank you,   
young man. It's good to know there are still a few people in this world who care."   
She reached up touching his cheek with a shaking hand. "You're a good man, Blair."   
She reminded him of a grandmother from a fairy tale, sitting in a rocking chair and   
knitting little rompers for her grandchildren. She stroked his cheeks, and Blair   
took her fragile hand into his.   
  
"I'm glad we could help," he smiled, feeling a little bit embarrassed at the attention   
he got for his natural behavior.   
  
"We?" Josephine repeated, now realizing what Blair had said earlier. "Oh, I don't   
want to get you or your friend into trouble. There was some money in it, but   
nothing worth risking a wild chase." Her warm brown eyes looked up at Blair in   
concern.   
  
"Don't worry, Ms Williams. Jim's a detective with the Cascade PD," Blair explained,   
and they both scanned the park for any sign of Jim and the fugitive.   
  
That was probably exactly what he had needed, Jim thought, while running after   
the thief. A nice, relaxing jogging track to get his mind off the scary images in his   
head. He felt invigorated, with his body concentrating on running, and senses on full   
alert. Actually, he could make a game out of it by waiting a few moments and then   
tracking the guy down with his hearing or any other of his senses. He felt like   
playing blind man's bluff, but also knew he couldn't risk any more attention on his   
activities than absolutely necessary. Maybe it was time to identify himself now,   
Jim thought.   
  
"Cascade PD!" he yelled and, no surprise, received no answer. Of course not, but he   
had to least try, hadn't he? Okay, Ellison, enough fooling around, get to it.   
  
He increased his speed, catching up with the man in front of him. He heard a voice   
behind him, shouting something he couldn't quite make out. It wasn't Blair's, but it   
was a male voice.   
  
"Jerry, sit down!"   
  
Oh, great, Jim thought, almost able to touch the thief's back. All you need is a   
pissed-off pinscher thinking you're his lunch reward. He turned his head slightly to   
  
  
make sure the little wanna-be dog wasn't trying to interfere with the course of   
action.   
  
Jerry, the dog, happily ran towards him, not listening to his owner's commanding   
voice. Jim glanced forward; he had almost caught up with the bad guy. One jump   
and it would be over. The detective once again looked over his shoulder to   
determine Jerry wasn't in the way, preparing himself for the final leap.   
  
Abruptly, his eye sight kicked in, and Jim focused on the dog's master who now   
brought a dog whistle to his lips!  
  
This wasn't happening; it couldn't be happening. It was just a damn nightmare that   
couldn't happen in the daylight. It wasn't fair, Jim thought irrationally, when he   
stopped in his tracks, petrified of what he knew would occur.   
  
For a short moment, Ellison meant to hear Blair's voice and, out of the corner of his   
eyes, he saw Blair moving towards the dog's owner. Yeah, he was yelling something,   
gesturing wildly to get his attention, and trying to protect the Sentinel. His Guide   
knew.   
  
The pain came the same second Jerry grabbed his leg to induce Jim to play with   
him. The dog stopped moving, when the sound of the dog whistle reached his   
sensitive ears. He turned his head to throw an indignant glance at his master, and   
then turned his little head again when the human beside him cried out.   
  
The mute sound pierced through Jim's head, sending him to his knees instantly.   
Screaming would be a good idea, but Jim didn't know if any sound had left his   
mouth. He couldn't hear anything but the shrill tone assaulting his hearing. He   
covered his ears with both hands, fighting to turn the dial down and struggling to   
stay conscious long enough to complete the process. There was nothing to   
concentrate on, only unbearable agony ravaging his entire body.   
  
Where was the dial? Unable to focus on the mental image of a dial in his head, Jim   
bit his lower lip until he tasted blood. It was yet another source of pain, but not so   
powerful as the screaming of the dog whistle still shrieking in his ears. Why didn't   
the damn dog obey? The silly thought came to mind while his sense of hearing and   
touch sent excruciating messages to his brain. Struggling to compensate, Jim bit   
harder into his lip concentrating on the taste of blood and pain in his mouth. If he   
could focused on that pain, maybe the other in his ears would slip to a hidden place   
deep inside his mind.   
  
  
  
  
His teeth dug into the smooth flesh, blood already flooding over his chin now, but   
Jim didn't feel or taste it. Harder. He bit down harder and the pain in his ears   
slowly became secondary.   
  
"Stop it!" Blair Sandburg almost crashed into the man who was unwittingly hurting   
his partner by the simple act of blowing a dog whistle.   
  
"Wha---?" the man managed before the young anthropologist grabbed his arm,   
hitting the torturer's item out of his hand. Blair kicked it with his foot and the   
whistle was nowhere to be seen. Without a word of explanation, Sandburg ran   
towards the spot where his friend was lying on the grass, unmoving now.   
  
He knew what had happened and Blair cursed himself that he hadn't done anything   
sooner. He had seen the dog chasing Jim, and had almost been amused by the sight.   
He had even seen the dog whistle.... but he hadn't thought of the effect such an   
instrument might have on his Sentinel friend until it was too late. Damn you,   
Sandburg!   
  
When he dropped on his knees beside Jim, Blair was breathing hard and in short   
gasps, his ribs hurting from the exertion. The Sentinel hadn't moved; His hands   
still covered his ears and his whole body curled up and tense. His eyes were open   
and staring, but not seeing. Blood slowly trickled from his mouth dripping onto his   
chin and shirt and, for a terrible moment, Blair panicked.   
  
"Jim!"   
  
There was no response from Jim, although Blair's loud voice must have hurt his   
hearing further... unless he wasn't deaf already. Oh no, please, please, don't do this   
to me, Blair thought, alarmed when he realized what the assault to Jim's   
hyperactive hearing might have inflicted.   
  
"Jim?" He gently touched his friend's shoulder. "Jim, can you hear me?" Blair's   
voice was low and on Sentinel level. Receiving no reply, the anthropologist suddenly   
knew what had happened. At least, he hoped to have figured it out. It pretty much   
looked like a zone-out, a concentration on an overly-stimulated sense. Sound?   
Touch? Or both?   
  
Blair's hand tenderly roamed over Jim's tense body, a gentle touch, almost a loving   
caress to free him from his frightened mind that had caused the zone-out. "Come   
on, Jim. Feel my hand, listen to my voice if you can." His mouth almost touched the   
Sentinel's face when he continued the soothing whispers. The blood disturbed Blair   
more than anything. He didn't know what had caused it and that made it worse.   
"Jim, please....come back to me. Concentrate on my voice and follow it back to the   
  
surface," he spoke softly while he bent forward so - if all else failed - Jim could at   
least feel his presence. A few strands of his curly hair fell onto Jim's face and   
hands, as his voice forming more words of comfort and peace.   
  
PAIN.   
EARS.  
PAIN.  
MOUTH.  
PAIN.  
HEAD.  
PAIN.  
There was something else. Something distracting the PAIN. Just a little. But it was   
there. Something... familiar and yet strange. A scent accompanied by a feather-  
light touch on his hurting face. Comforting. Better than the PAIN still spreading   
through his head. Jim couldn't remember this sensation. It hadn't been there   
minutes ago when the PAIN started. Maybe it would be a good idea to try and focus   
on the softness on his skin? Come on, Jim, give it a go. Carefully, afraid the PAIN   
would come back, Jim started loosening his gritted teeth.   
  
PAIN.   
MOUTH.   
  
It hurt! -- Then it was over and Jim suddenly felt warm blood running down his   
face. The pain was still there, both in his ears and mouth, but not so bad anymore.   
The silky touch on his face though remained, easing the ordeal, and Jim tentatively   
moved a finger to examine it.  
  
Blair held his breath when Jim suddenly started moving. Only one finger, but it was   
a start. Not moving himself, Blair watched as the finger found one of his long curls   
and slowly, hesitantly, twirled the hair around it.   
  
"Jim?" he whispered. "It's okay now. You're safe and nobody can hurt you." During   
the whole time Blair had stroked Jim's shoulder and head, and now he gently   
touched his face. "Breathe. Follow my voice and snap out of it, please," Blair did   
everything to let his voice sound even and not so desperate as he felt. Jim needed   
him calm and strong.   
  
The finger twisted the curl, pulling slightly as if to determine its strength.   
Cautiously, Blair covered Jim's hand with his. The sense of touch seemed the only   
way to communicate right now. Warmth meant safety and hopefully his partner   
would be able to understand the gesture.   
  
  
  
"Can you feel my hand, Jim? It covers yours. It's nice and warm, huh?" Blair smiled   
giving his voice an even gentler tone. "It seems you like my hair, too. Can you feel   
the softness on your skin, Jim? I bet you can tell me exactly how many little hairs   
you're holding, can't you? Why don't you tell me about it, Jim?"   
  
"T-tickles." came the slow reply from the hurting man in front of him, who still   
caught on the dark curl like it was a rock in the rough sea. Jim's voice was slurred   
giving Blair a hard time understanding what he was saying.   
  
"I bet it does, Jim." Blair's heart pounded heavily when Jim finally started blinking,   
squinting a little at the light as his vision and other senses got back online. The   
anthropologist still stroked his shoulders and head, smiling reassuringly when Jim's   
puzzled gaze met his. The finger eventually released the strand.   
  
"Did I zone-out?" Jim asked weakly, still covering one ear with his left hand.   
Thousands of little bells and at least a dozens offending alarm clocks must have   
gone off in his head at the same time. Ringing, buzzing, clanging... A starting   
headache made it difficult to concentrate, and his own voiced seemed to come from   
a distance.   
  
A feeling of relief rushed through Blair's body when Jim responded to his words   
coherently. "Yeah, you scared me for a while, buddy," Blair admitted.   
  
"Huh?" Jim shifted into a sitting position and slowly rolled his head from one side   
to the other to ease the tension. He brought a hand to his mouth, trying to wipe   
away the blood still running down his chin.   
  
"I said 'big time'," Blair repeated a little bit louder. "You okay?" he asked in   
concern when Jim's hand soon oozed with his own blood. Blair fumbled through his   
pockets searching for something to use.   
  
"...think I just bit my lip," Jim mumbled and produced a handkerchief out of his own   
pocket pressing it against his bleeding mouth.   
  
"Is he okay?" a voice asked, and Blair turned his head to find Jerry's owner   
standing in front of them, a confused look on his face. He apparently didn't   
understand what had happened, and Blair had no intention of telling him the   
unbelievable truth.   
  
"Yes, thanks. Just...a ...." Jim grinned, wincing a little, when he expectantly waited   
for Blair to answer the man's question. "....just a sudden...flash of a migraine," Blair   
finally lied, looking up and smiled convincingly.   
  
  
"Oh." The man stood still, a little bit uncertain of what to say next. "I was just   
surprised when you ran into me and....the dog whistle," he trailed off hoping for an   
explanation, with Jerry sitting next to him watching Jim with vigilant eyes.   
  
"I thought it was something else. Sorry about that," Blair apologized without   
blinking.   
  
"No harm done," the man said. "Hope you're feeling better soon," he addressed Jim   
who had reached out to stroke Jerry's little head, the dog licking his hand in turn.   
Jim nodded. "Thanks."   
  
"Jerry!" The dog reluctantly left Jim and followed his master. "Good day,   
gentlemen." The man waved shortly and walked away. A few people who had   
gathered around them and silently watched the incident slowly broke up as well.   
  
"What about the woman?" Jim suddenly remembered the reason for the wild chase   
and he looked around to find Josephine Williams. She was stilling standing on the   
walkway, watching the action around her with sad eyes.   
  
Blair supported Jim's body when the older man slowly struggled into a standing   
position. He swayed dangerously and grabbed Blair's arm when the world around him   
began to dance.   
  
"Whoa, Jim. Easy does it." Blair reached out and steadied his friend's wobbling   
form. "I think your sense of balance is a little bit out of whack. So, take it easy,   
buddy."   
  
What the hell is going on here? Jim thought, frustrated as he slowly walked by   
Blair's side.   
  
Asking himself the same question, Blair looked up into his friend's face, noticing   
the distress and discomfort while they walked. Now was not the moment to ask the   
question burning on his tongue since last night, but Blair intended to bring it up   
later.   
  
Why wouldn't he talk to him?   
  
****  
  
Talking and apologizing to Josephine Williams for his failure to catch the thief was   
one thing, talking and explaining to Simon Banks why he had to go home and take off   
the remainder of the afternoon because his head was exploding was another thing,   
  
  
but....talking and confessing to Blair Sandburg was an entirely different universe. A   
universe of darkness and fear he didn't want to get into... anymore.   
  
So, Jim decided to escape their conversation elegantly by vanishing from Blair's   
view for the rest of the day. Trying to ease his growing headache, Jim went to bed   
early, with the blinds tightly shut, white-noise generators in place. No sight, no   
sound.   
  
Downstairs in his room, Blair was staring at the ceiling, his view almost trying to   
weld a hole into the wall to spy on Jim. He didn't need Sentinel hearing to notice his   
partner was wide awake, tossing from one side to the other either trying to find   
any sleep or trying to avoid it. Hell, what was bothering him so much he couldn't   
talk to Blair about it?   
  
They were friends, weren't they? Weren't they?   
  
Jim was hurting, so much was obvious. The physical pain from the assault to his   
hearing today was one, his ears still ringing, his head aching and lips sore and   
burning like fire when he tried to drink, eat or even speak. So much for the things   
that caught the eye, but Blair also saw the hidden pain in his friend's eyes. Pain he   
was seemingly afraid to show to anyone, including Blair, or maybe especially Blair.   
  
2.45 a.m... Blair heard Jim coming downstairs, his bare feet making little noise on   
the steps. Walking into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, bottles rattling   
slightly -- whatever Jim did, he tried to do his utmost to be as silent as possible in   
order not to wake him. Blair listened carefully, hearing him stroll over to the couch   
and sit down with a low but heavy sigh.   
  
Suffering in silence?   
  
Maybe he - Jim - hoped Blair would hear him and come out to talk? Jim truly wasn't   
the kind of guy to come begging on his knees. This probably was Jim's way to plea   
for help.   
  
"You okay?" Blair suddenly found himself standing in the doorway of his room,   
glancing through the darkness where Jim was sitting. If Jim was surprised to see   
him up, he didn't show it, encouraging Blair to move to step 2 of his plan, joining him   
on the couch.   
  
"That was the hell of a day, huh?" Blair began in a soft voice, knowing Jim's ears   
were still tender from their ordeal in the park.   
  
  
  
"I've had better," Jim replied shortly. He DID NOT want to talk about this.   
Particularly not to Blair. His young friend expected him to be strong and in control,   
not a weeping wreck tormented by the shadows of his past and present. Though   
deep inside his heart, Jim longed for Blair's soothing words, or a comforting pat on   
the shoulder. He definitely didn't want to break down in front of him, but it gave   
him consolation to know he could.   
  
Blair wouldn't mind. But he would.   
  
Years of military training, always playing the leading role of the 'tough guy', had   
left their traces, and his stubborn head forbade any weakness. Whatever Blair was   
going to say, he would meet any sign of understanding or comfort Ellison-like, as   
expected of him.   
  
"Jim, I know you don't wanna talk about this....," Blair spoke up again, and Jim   
wasted no time and cut in sharply.   
  
"You're a clever kid, Sandburg. I don't. So don't even try!" Barking orders was so   
easy.   
  
'Tough-guy mode,' Blair mused grimly, but didn't even think of backing off. "Talk to   
me, Jim," he offered gently. "Whatever this is all about I'll understand and won't   
think any less of you."  
  
Wrong choice of words, Blair knew the second he'd spoken them out loud. Jim   
turned his head and through the darkness of the loft Blair meant to see the   
piercing blue eyes getting hard. "I mean... I want you to know you can talk to me."   
Blair rephrased.   
  
"I'll take that back," Jim grumbled. "You're not as smart as I thought. Otherwise   
you would get back to your room and shut the door behind you." 'Go to bed, kid,   
before I say something I'll regret later,' Jim begged silently.   
  
"I think it has to do with the nightmare you suffered last night and in the park   
today you finally reacted to it, " Blair continued not impressed. Jim barked when he   
tried to protect himself from the humanity radiating from Blair. "Your brain wanted   
to digest the memories and that might also explain why you had this little episode   
with Dan this morning. As far as I see it....."   
  
Jim exploded. "Who do you think you are Sandburg?! And who gave you the right to   
discuss my so-called mental problems with our medical examiner?" he shouted,   
wincing at the volume on his ears. He practically jumped from the coach, his   
enhanced vision alert for any obstacle.   
  
"I talked to him on the phone this morning because I wanted to know if you were   
still there as Simon had mentioned. Dan just said you behaved a little bit strange   
when you saw one of his corpses. He was concerned, Jim, and that's why he told   
me," Blair defended himself. Still sitting on the coach, his eyes slowly adjusting to   
the darkness, the thought that he had just entered enemy land didn't come to him.   
If Jim needed to fight before he opened up, it was fine with him.   
  
"And the smart-ass anthropologist jumped to the conclusion that Ellison needs   
therapy, didn't you?" Jim snapped angrily.   
  
This conversation led the wrong way, and Blair changed his tactic. Logic didn't seem   
to have any effect on the Sentinel.   
  
"Jim, I'm just trying to help you," Blair said softly, his voice automatically   
switching to guide mode. "I'm your friend and there isn't anything you have to feel   
ashamed of. Trust me."   
  
The other man stood at the opposite end of the room, leaning against the kitchen   
counter. "I don't need your help," he said in a normal voice, and Blair turned his   
head in his direction, trying to see him. For a minute, the anthropologist considered   
switching on the lights, but then he decided he felt safer talking in almost total   
darkness.   
  
"Jim." Blair sighed deeply and collected his thoughts, then continued: "I want to   
help you, buddy. It hurts me to see you hurting like this." He paused shortly to let   
his words sink. "I mean you're always there for me when I'm freaking out."   
  
No reaction. Maybe the hot water was boiling inside Jim, but as long as he remained   
silent and seemed to be listening, Blair kept talking.   
  
"Like...," A long-forgotten memory came to mind and, although distressing himself   
by remembering it, Blair said: "....the time after Lash had tried to kill me." The   
young man shuddered at the flashback. "I dreamt about it all night long. Seven   
nights a week, for months and even today...sometimes he comes back to me in my   
sleep." Blair swallowed and Jim almost reached to comfort him. But he couldn't.   
  
"You were always there for me, man," Blair remembered, his voice thick with   
emotion and old fears. "No matter how often I screamed my lungs out in terror, you   
always came down to hold me and tell me everything would be okay." He stared in   
the direction where Jim was standing, hoping to have broken the chains around the   
man's soul.   
  
  
  
"I was just trying to sleep, Sandburg. And that's very hard when you jump out of   
your skin every hour because your roommate has his shaky days."  
  
Jim hated himself. The hurt in Blair's eyes was heart-breaking, and Jim could see   
him flinch away from the words as though suffering a physical pain.   
  
"You don't mean that, Jim," the younger man whispered, trembling with hurt and   
anger.   
  
"I do, Sandburg," Jim growled. "I'm a soldier, as you might remember. I learned to   
survive long before you came up with the romantic idea of writing about the   
Sentinel thing, the 'Blessed Protector' of the tribe, and Lord of the Jungle. I can't   
allow myself the luxury to dwell on nightmares or fears. Face it, Sandburg. Only in   
your academic world, the Sentinel is a noble hero."   
  
Without a reply, Blair stood up from the couch and made his way to his room. He hit   
a chair once stumbling a little. Jim heard him moving around his room, and after a   
few minutes he came out again, fully dressed in jeans, shirt and jacket, his   
backpack on his shoulder.   
  
"Blair...", Jim began lamely, knowing what was coming next. Though he didn't block   
the way when Blair passed him heading for the front door.   
  
"I'll sleep in my office," the police observer announced and opened the door, not   
waiting for an answer or Jim's attempt to stop him. The door shut silently, and Jim   
wasn't sure if he'd seen Blair grab his keys when he left.   
  
"Brilliant, Ellison, brilliant. You're a complete idiot," he murmured, knowing it was   
useless right now to follow Blair. They both needed time, Jim probably more than   
Blair, and with this thought, he dropped onto the couch.   
  
He closed his eyes, but his brain wouldn't rest. Sitting there for a few minutes,   
Jim listened to the sounds of the night, not even trying to track his friend.   
Tomorrow they could talk. No, he would apologize and Blair would talk. Maybe....   
Jim's eyes opened and he walked over to the kitchen table. Finding a piece of paper   
and a pen, he began to write.   
  
****  
  
Jim Ellison grunted in frustration when he found himself chained to an examination   
table again. He didn't have time for such silly games, and he looked around to see   
any sign of ... Lee Brackett.   
  
  
"Come on, Brackett, what do you want this time?" Jim shouted angrily, when he   
spotted the Ex-CIA man standing at the end of the table, watching him with an   
amused smile on his face.   
  
"Ah, Mr. Ellison, it's so nice you could bring yourself to join us again tonight,"   
Brackett's voice was as cold as last night, and Jim inwardly shivered at the memory   
of the experiment he had conducted.   
  
"Fuck you, Brackett," Jim spat, trying fruitlessly to free himself from the shackles   
holding his wrists and ankles in place. It all seemed like a terrible déjà-vu -been   
there, done that. The Sentinel knew it was just a nightmare, nothing to worry   
about, but nevertheless he felt the familiar fear creeping up his spine. Just a   
nightmare, meaning he really couldn't get hurt, could he? This time he had the   
advantage. It's all a matter of the mind, as Sandburg would say. Just your   
imagination.   
  
"Actually, Mr. Ellison, I don't feel up to that," Brackett replied with a wry smile on   
his face. "I'd rather try to research these incredible senses of yours again."  
  
Jim laughed. "Oh, sure, I already know the dog-whistle trick."   
  
Trying to blink, Jim suddenly realized he couldn't open or close his eyes at will!   
Something seemed to hold his eyelids in place, forcing them to stay open. Jim could   
already feel the tears rolling down the side of his face from the effort.   
  
"We are going to darken the room a little," Brackett announced, and within seconds   
the room fell dark.   
  
Instinctively, Jim's eyes adjusted. 'Try to picture the dial, Jim.' Sandburg's voice   
sounded clear in his head guiding Jim to minimize the possible damage.   
  
'God, Chief. Help me.'  
  
"Now...," Brackett's voice overpowered the whispers of his Guide. Seconds later, a   
flashlight ignited, sending out fireballs of light and brightness, hitting his over   
sensitive pupils. Jim cried out in agony, pulling at his restraints like a madman.   
Golden stars danced in front of his burning eyes, blinding him forever.   
  
As if not enough pain, his ears picked up a ringing sound, not quite the same like the   
dog whistle but painful enough to drive him crazy. Jim jerked violently and...   
  
...opened his eyes!  
  
  
Covered in sweat and his hands shaking from the latest nightmare, Jim took a deep   
breath and looked around. He was okay; his vision cutt through the now semi-  
darkness of the loft. Just another nightmare, he sighed in relief, rubbing the sleep   
from his eyes. He was still sitting at the kitchen table, the letter he'd begun   
writing laying in front of him, the pen in his fingers. The memory came back in a   
rush and Jim didn't need to scan the apartment to know Blair hadn't returned home   
yet. It was 5:53 a.m. and he would probably find him at the university.   
  
The ringing in his ears remained though, and Jim shook his head, yawning and   
stretching. It took him another second to realize the offending ringing wasn't his   
ears but the telephone in front of him  
  
"You're getting old, Jimbo," he mumbled and answered the call.   
  
"Ellison."   
  
"Uhm, hello. Is this Detective James Ellison?" an old, female voice asked hesitantly.   
  
Jim didn't recognize the voice but replied: "Speaking. Who is this?"   
  
The woman didn't answer the question. "Here's a young man who begged me to call   
your number, Detective."   
  
Instantly on alert, Jim tightened his grip on the receiver and turned up his hearing   
trying to find out what was happening on the other end of the line. He picked up   
two heartbeats. He knew before his hearing sent the confirmation to his brain.   
  
"Blair?!" he shouted. Why would Blair call him? No, wrong question. Why would he   
ask someone to call him? Was he afraid Jim would cut the line when he heard his   
voice? Oh, Sandburg, I'm sorry, Jim thought and hoped he could earn his friend's   
trust again. They would talk about it.   
  
"J--Jim?" Blair's voice sounded tiny and scared over the distance.   
  
"Hey, Chief," Jim greeted, giving his voice as much comfort and warmth as he could.   
Come on, Blair, don't make it too hard, please. The thought was interrupted by a   
sudden sob on the other end.   
  
"Blair? What is it?" Jim asked gently.   
  
"Can y-you pick me up, p-please?" a shaken voice pleaded.   
  
  
  
Something was definitely not right, and Jim restrained himself from yelling at his   
Guide for beating around the bush. He could hear his racing heart and occasional   
hiccups, indicating Blair had been crying.   
  
"Where are you, Chief?" Start with a simple question, then carefully work your way   
up to the next one.   
  
"I'm not sure," Blair's voice trembled.   
  
"Can you describe the area, buddy?" Jim probed softly, his own anger forgiven and   
forgotten.   
  
"Jim?!" An almost-sob and a deep breath to deliver the news. "I don't know what's   
happened, Jim," Blair admitted, and at first Jim thought he meant their earlier   
fight. Blair's next words though gave him the chills, and Jim immediately knew he   
would never ever forget the moment that cut into his heart like a knife.   
  
"I had an ... accident. I think I'm b-blind, Jim."   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Three  
Light  
  
"But if you put your faith in me,   
I won't let you down"  
(Jim Ellison, "The Inside Man")  
  
  
Pain and darkness. He couldn't fight both, and with the pain, the memory returned...  
  
The young anthropologist raced downstairs, leaving the building at 852 Prospect,   
hurting and disappointed at the coldness he'd just been confronted with. Car keys   
ready in his hands, Blair at first didn't find the lock in the darkness of the night.   
Street lights scarcely illuminated the spot, and the moon hid somewhere behind   
heavy rain clouds. Finally opening the door, Blair threw himself into the vehicle and   
took a few deep breaths before he started the engine.   
  
One look into the review mirror showed an empty street and he pulled out of the   
parking lot. He half expected Jim to follow him but, on second thought, Blair   
grinned sardonically at his own silliness. Jim wouldn't follow him. Over the few years   
they had worked together and become friends, Blair had learned that Jim would   
probably curse himself for his hurting words but he wouldn't come running after   
him. Not now. Later, possibly but not likely. Maybe never. He always expected Blair   
to come back and accept the unspoken apology, an absolution Blair wasn't ready to   
grant this time.   
  
His heart rate increased with the anger rushing through his body. Blair wasn't used   
to negative feelings like these. Surely, he was ticked off sometimes, everyone was   
allowed to feel grumpy from time to time. However, the hurt mixed with a great   
amount of rage puzzled him. Sandburg felt weak because his mind wasn't capable of   
controlling it. People needed to explode to let off the steam, and Jim was probably   
a world champion at that, but to Blair and his peaceful nature, anger and rage threw   
him off balance.   
  
Blair turned at a traffic light and found himself driving through a part of town he   
hadn't been to before. Dilapidated houses lined the street. A few of them were   
boarded up, their windows broken. Old cars were parked on one side of the street,   
and Blair stopped his Volvo near a flickering street light.   
  
He needed to think, digesting his feelings. Against his better judgement, the grad   
student got out of his car, locked it, and slowly strolled down the empty sidewalk.   
  
  
Breathe deep – hold it – let it out slowly. The Guide knew the drill, but it had never   
been so difficult to accomplish the technique he had taught Jim a million times   
before.   
  
"Jim's never been an open guy," he spoke out loud. Maybe if he actually heard the   
words coming from his own mouth, they would make sense, and ease the pain tearing   
at his heart. His scientific mind cycled in overdrive as he sought a logical   
explanation.   
  
"Hell, why I'm defending this guy!?" he exclaimed suddenly.   
  
Much to his surprise and shock, he received an answer. A dark voice reached his   
ear.   
  
"Save the Sentinel."   
  
Blair spun around, his eyes straining to penetrate the darkness. There was no one,   
just the empty street with silent buildings casting their spooky shadows over the   
whole area. The street lights, if working, provided only a poor illumination of his   
surroundings. Blair shook his head.   
  
"Is anyone there?" he asked and shrugged at his odd behavior. Of course, there   
was nobody. Just his imagination playing tricks on him, his brain trying to supply the   
scientific reasons he was looking for. There was nothing, Blair assured himself and   
turned to go back to his car.   
  
"If you get killed in this area, Jim'll blame you for being dead", he muttered and   
increased his speed.   
  
"What does he fear?"   
  
The voice in his head questioned, and Blair stopped in his tracks. His searching gaze   
revealed nothing again, and he slowly turned around to look behind himself. Like   
before, he couldn't see much, but he was certain no one was present. A movement   
caught his attention and the young man held his breath. Seconds passed. Blair   
nearly jumped out of his skin when a little black cat leapt onto a garbage can near   
one of the old houses. The black night almost devoured the small animal, and all   
Blair could make out were a pair of phosphorescent green eyes. He stepped closer.   
  
"Hey, little kitty, am I dreaming or were you talking to me?" he asked with a smile   
in his voice. If anyone saw him, he would probably end up in a mental institution for   
talking to a pet. Dr. Blair Doolittle, PhD in animal talking.   
  
  
His eyes were riveted on the cat's like he was expecting an answer. The reply came   
with the same cryptic inquiry he'd heard only moments ago.   
  
"What does he fear?"   
  
The anthropologist froze. The words came from the direction where the kitten was   
sitting but Blair still didn't see anyone--just a cat. Nothing to lose but his sanity,   
Blair approached it again.   
  
"Who are you?" A logical question in a bizarre situation. Good enough to be worth   
answering, Blair thought, and glanced over his shoulder to see if anybody had   
witnessed their play.   
  
"You," was the enigmatic reply.   
  
Blair's eyes went wide at the revelation, and he shook his head in denial, hands   
spread in front of him as if to protect himself from the truth.   
  
"Me? No way, man, I'm here. I know I am ...myself. Try another one," he refused.   
  
The little cat meowed and curled its little black tail around its feet. A majestic   
movement, elegant in its perfection, and all the same threatening because Blair had   
watched it before. No, not watched with his own eyes, but he remembered Jim   
telling him about it once. In the Sentinel's description though, it had been a   
panther, black like the night, powerful, proud, and yet gentle, guiding him, warning   
him and protecting him. The noble Lord of the Jungle.   
  
"You are my spirit guide," Blair whispered when realization hit him. A big cat for   
the big guy and a little cat for the small one. Did that sound as ridiculous as it was?   
The thought struck him briefly.   
  
The cat, licking its feet now, seemed to speak again, or, Blair thought it was talking   
again. What do you expect, Sandburg, mouth movements?   
  
"No, I am in you helping you to save the Sentinel."   
  
"How can I help him? He won't let me! Hell, he practically threw me out of his   
house," Blair snorted furiously. He paced back and forth when the anger and rage   
he'd felt before consumed his body again.   
  
"This is not about you," the Spirit Guide, or whatever it was, spoke reassuringly.   
  
  
  
"Oh, that's a relief," Blair replied and ceased the nervous walking. His heart was   
beating heavily.   
  
"Take a deep, cleansing breath."   
  
Blair's head snapped up. "Thanks. I know about these things!" He inhaled deeply,   
waited longer than absolutely necessary until he thought his lungs would burst, and   
let it out noisily.   
  
"How can I help him?" Blair requested.   
  
He started when the little cat suddenly stood up from her place and looked around,   
sniffing the air as it seemed. A short meow and the animal jumped off the trash   
can, marching down the sidewalk in delicate steps. The green eyes looked at him,   
inducing him to follow, and Blair slowly, hesitantly, started towards the incarnation   
of Jim's panther.   
  
"Could you please answer my question?" Blair demanded impatiently while the cat   
guided him onto the open street.   
  
"If you put your faith in him, he won't let you down. Tell him," was the last thing   
Blair heard, before the house, where he'd just been standing, exploded in a   
fireball!   
  
The young man was thrown off his feet, the shock wave hurling him against the wall   
of a wooden building across the street. Catching his breath and struggling to escape   
the peril he was obviously in, Blair made it to his feet again. His whole body hurt,   
and his moans of pain filled the air, but with an extraordinary power of will, he   
managed a few steps. The second detonation shook the whole block, and searing   
flashes of lightning brightened the night and burnt sapphire-blue eyes....  
  
....so it had been an explosion, Blair mused weakly. Why didn't Jim come to rescue   
him? Oh, yes, he'd forgotten: Jim didn't rescue anymore. Disturbing his sleep.   
Shaky roommates weren't his business.   
  
"I won't cry, Jim, I promise," the young anthropologist whimpered before gracious   
unconsciousness took him again.  
  
****  
  
His nightmare had become a painful reality.   
  
  
  
This time though, the first rays of sunshine didn't erase the demons of the dark. It   
had been so easy to think of it as a bad dream, a nightmare, a frightening string of   
thoughts invading his head. The shadows remained leaving the Sentinel shocked and   
scared to death.   
  
Yes, he - Jim Ellison - was scared. Not for himself anymore, no, that'd been too   
simple. Now, in a phone call, his innermost fears had been given shape. He hadn't   
been able to protect the people he cared about. He'd failed.   
  
Blair's words echoed in his head.   
  
"I had an accident. I think I'm blind, Jim."  
"....I'm blind, Jim."  
"...Jim."  
  
He'd failed to save his best friend. And what was worse, they had parted in a fight,   
struggled because of a damn conversation gotten out of hand. Out of his hands.   
Blair had offered his help, selflessly as always, and he had turned him down. The   
hurt reflecting in the deep blue eyes had cut into his heart like piercing darts.   
Stubborn as only Jim Ellison could be, he hadn't done anything to ease his Guide's   
distress, but had added to it by saying words he'd thought would have never left his   
lips.   
  
Jim tightened his grip on the steering wheel and raced through the deserted early   
morning streets of Cascade. The lights in front of him indicated red, but he didn't   
pay attention or even really notice. The address the woman had given him after   
Blair's voice had cracked heart-brokenly was somewhere at the south end of the   
city -a poor part of town. Jim wondered what the hell his young friend had been   
doing there.   
  
Escaping from him.   
  
Jim's musings were interrupted by the sound of yelling sirens in the distance,   
coming nearer and nearer the closer he came to his destination. Not far away, over   
the roofs of those old houses, Jim spotted tongues of flame leaping up and dark   
clouds of smoke. Momentarily, his eyes zoomed in on the fire ahead and the blood   
ran cold in his veins when realization set in.   
  
The truck sped up, curving around the corner with squealing tires, and coming to a   
screeching halt in front of a police road-block. Two uniformed officers, who were   
trying to control and calm down the gathering crowd, approached the vehicle.   
  
  
  
"Excuse me, sir," one of the officer spoke up. "The road is closed and we must ask   
you to turn your car around and leave." Polite, but determined.   
  
Jim presented his badge and got out of the truck.   
  
"Detective Ellison," he introduced himself sharply and pushed by the officers.   
"Who's in charge here?"   
  
Not waiting for an answer, Jim instantly made out the tall figure of his captain who   
was standing a few yards away engrossed in a discussion with one of the firemen.   
The detective headed in the direction where Simon was leading the operation, at   
the same time scanning the area for any sign of his young friend, his concern   
growing. Please, don't let him be here, he prayed silently.   
  
"Jim!" Simon Banks saw him coming, his face showing confusion. "What are you doing   
here, Jim? I didn't call you." Simon asked and nodded to the fireman who walked   
away to help his men.   
  
"What happened?" Jim requested, ignoring Simon's question. He viewed the   
destroyed houses, squinting when the flames pierced his sensitive eyes. Jim blinked   
hastily, a menacing vision from his latest nightmare starting to threaten him again.   
The Sentinel closed his eyes for the moment, grateful for being capable of the   
simple movement of his eyelids.   
  
"A gas leak we guess," Simon explained. "The detonation blew up four houses and   
damaged a few in the neighboring areas." He went silent for a moment. "We haven't   
found out how many people where in the houses at the time of the explosion but..."   
He trailed off leaving the possible number of casualties at Jim's own estimation. "I   
heard about it on my way into work," Banks added.   
  
"Taggert is currently trying to determine if it was just a leak and not some type of   
bomb. But why would someone want to...."   
  
"Sandburg's somewhere here," Jim intruded Simon's monologue.   
  
"What?!" Shock and disbelief crossed the captain's face as his gaze slowly roamed   
over the remains of former run-down houses. Now they were only burnt pieces of   
wood and stone, black monuments of the fire's unforgiving strength. Simon's eyes   
went back to look into Jim's anguished blues and the prodigious truth became   
flesh-creeping fact.  
  
"W-hy?" Simon managed a word and then he gestured towards the devastation. His   
hands moved, indicating the assumption he couldn't speak out loud.  
  
"No," Jim shook his head, and Simon exhaled his breath when hope set in again. "He   
called me from somewhere around here. He's....injured, Simon, and I've gotta find   
him."   
  
"What was he doing here in the first place?" his superior officer and friend asked   
while he watched Jim wandering around the area looking for any sign of Blair. Most   
street signs were destroyed in the explosion, making it impossible to find the right   
address. Blair could be anywhere.   
  
The Sentinel didn't have the courage nor the time to answer Simon's question -   
maybe later - and he turned his head slightly to stare at the intact houses nearby.   
Why didn't the woman who'd apparently rescued Blair come out and find him?   
Maybe Blair's wounds were so severe she couldn't risk leaving him alone? Jim   
dismissed the thought into a remote corner of his brain.   
  
"Simon?" Jim threw him an almost desperate glance, and Banks placed a comforting   
hand onto his shoulder, realizing what Jim was up to.   
  
"I'll watch over you, man. Go find him," Simon said warmly and stood in front of   
Jim, shielding him from curious looks. As always, he watched in total astonishment   
as the Sentinel closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and extended his sense of hearing   
to find a trace of his partner and Guide.  
  
Breathing in a calm rhythm, Jim became aware of the sounds accompanying the   
catastrophe in front of him: the crackling of the raging fire, the sighs of defeated   
wooden planks, and bursting glass. However, as soon as he turned up his hearing,   
tender eardrums recollected their ordeal in the park the day before, sending   
stabbing pain through his head. Jim winced, opening his eyes quickly, his left hand   
covering his ear when the sounds assaulting his hearing became too much.   
  
"Jim? You okay?" Simon's dark eyes rested on the man, growing concern clearly   
visible. The hand on Jim's shoulder moved, starting a soothing rubbing.   
  
Ellison rubbed his forehead with his other hand and nodded slowly.   
  
"My ears still are a little over-sensitive. I can't reach out and filter through the   
sounds." He sighed, tiredness capturing his face.   
  
"Couldn't you try to find this dial thing?" Simon remembered Sandburg had once   
used the word, although Banks hadn't been able to fathom what it was all about.   
  
Jim shook his head. "I've tried. I usually have Blair around when this kind of stuff   
happens." His voice, beaten with fatigue and fear, baffled his captain more than the   
  
inability to use his sensory powers. Something was definitely wrong with his best   
detective, and Simon was about to utter a question in that direction, when Joel   
Taggert shouted from a distance:   
  
"Simon!" Recognizing Jim, the bomb squad captain stopped short for a moment,   
then added in a somewhat relieved but nevertheless questioning tone: "Jim?!"   
  
They'd found Sandburg.   
  
****  
  
Jim Ellison couldn't recall having ever seen a more pitiful sight: His young friend   
was lying on a couch across the room, curled up in a ball, a too short blanket   
covering his trembling body, a torn piece of cloth across his face. For a brief span   
of time, Jim wasn't able to make his own body move, muscles paralyzed with relief   
and shock. He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat wouldn't go away.   
  
Finally, his legs cooperated and he walked over to the couch, kneeling beside it.   
Resisting the urge to place a hand on Blair's shoulder, Jim spoke in a raw voice that   
sounded strange even in his own ears.   
  
"Blair? Can you hear me?" Not intending to frighten the injured man in front of him,   
Jim explained: "I'm going to touch you now. Is that okay?" Carefully, as if he was   
made of precious china, Jim's hand gently touched Blair's.   
  
The coldness of the skin startled Jim. His fingers quickly checked Blair's wrist for   
a pulse. A steady but fast rhythm rewarded him, and Jim released his breath   
noisily. Blair's sweat and trembling indicated a state of shock though.   
  
Blair stirred under the touch and a pain-filled moan escaped his lips. Shivers ran   
through his body, and Jim hurried to reassure him.   
  
"Everything's okay, Chief. I'm here."  
  
"Jim?" Blair's voice sounded surprised and infinitely weak.   
  
"It's me, buddy," The Sentinel said and stroked the unruly bunch of dark curls.   
"Just relax and keep breathing. The ambulance is on its way."   
  
"My eyes hurt," Blair sobbed and the shivering increased.   
  
Jim shrugged out of his coat and placed it over the blanket as a second layer to   
warm his friend. Then he spotted a bowl of water on the floor beside the coach,   
  
and, cautiously, Jim removed the washcloth from Blair's face. The young man   
hissed, as did Jim, when he revealed the extent of Blair's facial injuries. Most of   
his face was covered with soot but the area around his eyes was badly bruised and   
swollen, showing signs of burnt, red tissue. The eyelids were closed, squeezed tight   
against the pain. Jim could only guess how much it hurt.   
  
Jim moistened the cloth in the water, wrung it out over the bowl, and gently   
replaced it on Blair's eyes and face. The young anthropologist winced at the slight   
pressure, but welcomed the cooling.   
  
"It know it hurts, Chief, but you gonna be okay soon," Jim soothed.  
  
"I can't see," Blair sighed the words that had stopped Jim's heart earlier. Jim   
closed his eyes momentarily.   
  
"You gonna be alright, Blair," he repeated the comforting mantra, more to reassure   
himself it seemed. While his hand gently roamed over Blair's body to determine any   
further injuries, he listened to the conversation coming from the other end of the   
room.   
  
Her name was Ethel Vincent. She was old, 78 years, and had lived in that house for   
almost 43 years now. In a grandmotherly voice she gave her statement to Simon,   
embellishing her story with every little detail she could thing of.   
  
"It was exactly 5:32 when the huge explosion woke me up. The walls and everything   
else shook with the giant shock wave. China and glasses in my cupboard clinked and   
a few of them even broke. I first thought of an earthquake, you know, a big one like   
it happened in San Francisco a few years ago, but then I saw the fire outside my   
bedroom window - it's towards the street, not in the back of the house like the   
living-room here. As fast as I could, I got out of bed, grabbed my robe and ran   
outside to see what had happened. I was so afraid my house would burn down to the   
ground, and I would have to live on the streets from now on. So you could tell, I   
was more than relieved the explosion had spared my home. But, I feel so sorry for   
my poor neighbors, their lost lives and all the damage done to the houses of those   
who survived. I know some of them very well." Ethel paused for a minute, probably   
thinking of the casualties, and she sighed deeply before she continued speaking.   
  
"I was about to go back inside my house to call the fire department when I saw this   
young man." She gestured towards the sofa. "First, I assumed he was drunk   
because he was staggering from one side to the other like he'd just returned from   
a night out with his buddies. He collapsed once, and although I thought he was   
drunk, I felt for him and wanted to help him. When he came within reaching   
distance, I could see that he was injured. His arms were wrapped around his body   
  
and his face, oh my Lord, I was so alarmed when I saw the wounds on his face. He   
collapsed again and I tried to hold him upright but he was too heavy for me and we   
both found ourselves tumbling on the ground again." She smiled shortly. "I think my   
weight softened his fall." Simon returned the smile taking in her ample form.   
  
"Anyway, he was stammering something about a cat and ghosts, no, spiritual people,   
he was hallucinating I guess, but when he had a clear moment, he mentioned his   
friend, Detective Ellison here, and begged me to call him. What surprised me most   
was that he managed to recall his phone number, so he couldn't be that delirious. I   
called Mr. Ellison after I had succeeded in getting him inside." The old woman   
looked over to Blair and Jim and whispered so that only Simon could hear: "He's a   
hunk if you ask me."   
  
Simon grinned and nodded. "Oh yes, Ellison has this kind of charm that seems to   
attract women." He sounded almost jealous but Ethel Vincent threw him a glance.   
  
"I meant the curly head, son."   
  
Despite the seriousness of the situation, the police captain laughed out loud.   
  
****  
  
The first diagnosis was troubling, and even with the doctor's reassurance that it   
was still too early to make a final prognosis, Jim suddenly felt sick.   
  
"Mr. Sandburg was quite lucky, gentlemen," Dr. Stewart admitted while explaining   
the medical details to Jim and Simon. They were standing in the waiting room area   
of Cascade Memorial. Antiseptic smells, the slight scent of cigars and tobacco   
coming from his captain and all the other odors normally associated with hospitals   
added to the Sentinel's sudden feeling of nausea.   
  
Jim tried to suppress a furious snort. Why did they always say someone was lucky   
in spite of the injuries listed on that chart labeled "Sandburg, Blair" speaking an   
entirely different language? Behind closed doors Blair was suffering and in pain   
because of some cruel vagaries of fate - and because Jim had pushed him in that   
direction in the first place. Drowning in self pity and taking on guilt wasn't getting   
him anywhere, Jim knew it, but he wanted to feel bad for what he'd done. So,   
Sandburg's "luck" had provided him with a couple of cracked ribs ("nothing to worry   
about, Detective. He'll feel uncomfortable for some days, soreness and stiff   
muscles, but nothing major"), scratches and scrapes ("just on the surface"), and,   
luck never ending, severely bruised face with an injury of the eyes. No one could   
tell if Blair'd suffered a permanent damage ("all we can do is wait"). The swelling   
caused pressure on his optic nerve, blinding him temporarily ("as far as we can   
  
tell"). If fortune smiled on him, the swelling would decrease proportionally with his   
sight returning. It was a dance on thin ice and any minute the surface could break.   
How lucky.  
  
Dr. Stewart pointed out some medical information, Simon nodded making a face if   
he understood every single word, and suddenly Jim had enough of it all.   
  
"Thank you, doctor, for your thorough explanations but let's face it, you don't have   
the first clue if Sandburg will ever be able to see again, right?"   
  
The harsh words softened the physician's face and calmly he replied, "Detective, I   
can imagine how you feel...."   
  
"Oh, you can?" Jim snapped and slapped at Simon's hand who was trying to calm him   
down. "With all due respect, Dr. Stewart, you may have all the medical evidence   
available, but you don't have the slightest idea how I'm feeling right now, and I   
hope you never will have to deal with something like this personally." His eyes met   
Simon's and Jim added: "That applies for you, too, sir." He didn't shout, astonishing   
Simon who'd expected an outburst of rage, and when neither of the men said a   
word, Jim spoke up again. "When can I take him home?"   
  
Dr. Stewart simply nodded, hearing what Jim had just tried to say, and answered:   
"Since all we can do is hope for the best, you can take Mr. Sandburg home now. As I   
mentioned earlier, he's experiencing some discomfort right now, but with a mild   
pain killer I see no reason why he shouldn't be released. Let me do the paperwork   
and in, say, one hour he'll be ready to go."   
  
The doctor disappeared, and Jim felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he   
saw that the concerned eyes of Simon Banks rested on his face.   
  
"Jim, I think I know what you're going through..." Upon the ice-cold gaze he   
received, Simon quickly continued: "...even if you think I'm an emotionless jerk. I   
watched you this morning and I have never seen you so disconnected. There's more   
behind it than just Sandburg's injuries, isn't there?"   
  
The detective didn't show any reaction and, after a whole minute of heavy silence,   
Simon thought Jim hadn't heard him at all. Then Jim slowly shook his head as if his   
brain had just digested the question and found an answer.   
  
"Simon." Silence again when Jim sought a way to answer his own mental turmoil. "I   
can't tell you what's going on here." He sighed deeply and the cold eyes became the   
gentle blue eyes of a man who cared. "I have to tell Sandburg first."   
  
  
****  
  
It was already late afternoon, when Jim and Blair entered the loft like so many   
times before. No, Jim corrected himself, not like before. 'Before' Blair hadn't   
needed a supporting arm to guide him. 'Before' Blair hadn't been wearing white   
bandages covering his eyes. 'Before' Blair's endless chatter had grated on Jim's   
nerves. Now, the silence, occasionally interrupted by low moan, depressed him.   
  
Taking their coats, Jim put them on the hooks near the door and placed the keys   
into the basket. Blair stood in the middle of the loft, unmoving, like doll that'd run   
out of energy. He was exhausted from the whole ordeal this morning and later in   
the hospital. Examinations, needles, injections, tests - he was so sick of it, and all   
he wanted to do was curl up in his warm bed and sleep until the next morning.   
  
"What would you like for dinner?" Jim asked.   
  
Blair turned his head, white bandages staring at Jim. "If you don't mind, Jim, I'd   
like to go to bed now. I'm not hungry," he added, guessing his friend's protest.   
  
Jim nodded, then cursed himself for the silent agreement Blair couldn't see and   
said out loud: "Okay, but you tell me if you want anything, you hear me?" He walked   
over were Blair stood and took his arm for guidance.   
  
To his surprise, a bright grin crossed the anthropologist's face. "I think I've lived   
here long enough to find my room, Jim. Just give me a good push in the right   
direction."   
  
Making fun of the odd situation, Jim took Blair's shoulders, moving his body a little   
bit to the right and gave him a slight push. "Straight ahead, buddy. You can't miss   
the door."   
  
Blair chuckled. "Yeah, you'll hear the sound of wood on wood when I knock my   
head." He slowly started moving towards the French doors of his little bedroom,   
uncertain in his motions although he'd assured Jim he was coping.   
  
"Hey." Jim suddenly grabbed his arm, and Blair flinched at the unexpected touch.   
  
"What? Did you move the furniture?" he asked jokingly and waited for any   
directions.   
  
"No, it's not that," Jim hurried to say, still holding Blair's arm. "Chief, I'm...I'm s-  
...." he began, but Blair wrested his arm from Jim's grip and stepped back.   
  
  
"Jim, don't. " Blair said in a normal voice, knowing too well what Jim was going to do   
and what he had to do. "Don't apologize now."   
  
"Blair...," Jim pleaded and reached out to place hand on his friend's shoulder.   
  
"I don't want your apology now for what you said yesterday," Blair stated, allowing   
the hand to rest on his shoulder. He needed the comfort as much as Jim did but he   
also needed to make his point. "It had hurt to hear those words coming from you,   
big guy, and deep in my heart, I'm hoping to know you didn't mean them." Blair held   
up a hand when he sensed Jim's attempt to stop him. "Please, hear me out. I don't   
wanna hear you're sorry, Jim. Not now, when pity is motivating you to say   
something. Later, when my sight comes back to normal, I want to look into your eyes   
and see the truth. You won't even have to say the words, but I'll know." He patted   
Jim's hand, turned on his heel and carefully made his way to his room.   
  
****  
  
Lee Brackett watched the motionless figure in front of him with a diabolic grin on   
his face, blue eyes hard, shining with sadistic desire and satisfaction. After all, the   
good and strong James Ellison was at his mercy, submitted to endure anything   
Brackett's inventiveness would come up with.   
  
It was time for revenge--his long-awaited revenge for the humiliation he'd   
suffered because the super-detective had once beat him. He could not allow that   
to happen again, and it was time for collecting outstanding debts. To beat and to   
break. Knowing about Ellison's Sentinel abilities, Brackett had all aces in the tight   
grip of his hand. He smiled without joy, a short and grotesque movement of muscles   
around his mouth, distorting the handsome features.   
  
Something bothered Jim. Still half asleep, his senses sent a silent alarm, ringing   
every available bell, that something demanded his undivided attention. He had felt   
it before but couldn't quite remember when and why. It was a strange sensation,   
indescribable, but strong enough to make his body tense and alert. Reaching to   
explore whatever it was that disturbed him, Jim suddenly sensed it was more a   
feeling than a physical sensation--a feeling usually associated with the comforting,   
gentle presence of Blair Sandburg. Whereas this 'guide feeling' was like a pleasant   
tickle, the new one brought a rush of hatred, rage and fear, an accumulation of   
foulness and pain.   
  
The Sentinel turned up his hearing to check on Blair downstairs. A steady   
heartbeat and rhythmic breathing pattern indicated that the young man was still   
awake and supposedly, unharmed.   
  
  
"Nice to have you with us again, Detective," the familiar voice of Lee Brackett   
reverberated through the night, and Jim opened his eyes, startled, but not entirely   
surprised. It had all happened before, hadn't it?  
  
"I've just had the strongest feeling of disgust I've ever experienced," Jim said   
with the stoic face that could make Brackett rage with frustration. "It could have   
only be you, Brackett."   
  
His enhanced vision scanned the semi-dark room. This time he wasn't strapped down   
to an examination table in an obscure laboratory of his mind, but he was spread   
eagle-style on his own bed! Wrists and ankles were tied to the bedstead, his   
clothes removed leaving him naked and completely vulnerable to any sensory test   
Brackett wanted to conduct tonight. Jim shivered slightly when a light breeze   
brushed over his exposed body.   
  
Brackett smirked, seemingly amused at the natural reaction to cold, and moved to   
stand closer to the bed. Jim tested his bonds, knowing already his attempts were   
only a waste of strength, but also trying to inch away from the immoral ghost of his   
nightmares.   
  
"Oh, Ellison, why don't you play the game by the book?" Brackett's voice sounded   
utterly disappointed, and a clammy hand patted Jim's thigh while he spoke. "I   
thought you knew the rules. Prisoners of war have to have this frightened look in   
their eyes, trembling with the fear of knowing they can't escape their captors and   
begging for their sorry asses." Brackett shook his head when Jim remained stoic.   
"Are you trying to tell me you have never led an interrogation, Captain Ellison?"   
  
"What war do you mean, Brackett?" Jim spat. "What kind of war games are you   
composing in that sick brain of yours? You wanna kill me?" He chuckled. "Oh, you   
are such a brave man, aren't you? You have to chain me down, before you gather   
the courage to fulfill your master plan. I really look up to you." Seeing the anger   
crossing Brackett's face, Jim hurried to continue his litany of mockery. "Do you   
wanna know what I think? You're a coward and don't have the balls to perform the   
final step."   
  
Brackett suddenly laughed. "Kill you? That would be too easy, my friend. I still need   
some information on your sensory abilities, and then I'll maybe kill you, or spread   
the word to the press. Don't know yet, but I'm flexible." The man moved away   
from the bed and Jim saw him fumbling with wires, connecting something, grabbing   
into a bag, and eventually returning to his position beside Jim's bed.   
  
"Let's play it the other way around this time, " he suggested as though asking for   
Jim's opinion. "I've already learned how sensitive your senses of sound and sight   
  
are. Now I'd like to check on your sense of touch. However, I don't wanna see how   
much, let's say, pain you can endure." He smiled sarcastically, and Jim smiled back,   
with just as much sarcasm. "But how far can you turn it down. What do you say?"   
  
Jim suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm freezing, Brackett. Cut the crap and   
get to it." Jim knew his calm manner slowly drove Brackett crazy, and he enjoyed   
the thought for a moment.   
  
Like the nights before, the detective's face showed no emotion, no jaw muscle   
twitching, although deep inside he froze up when Lee Brackett produced a small   
electric device. It was a simple construction of wires and metal. Simple, but   
effective, Jim knew. His own military expertise had provided him with all kinds of   
gear to loosen a man's tongue. Horrible stuff.   
  
"Shall we?" Brackett's eyes roamed over his victim's exposed body, deciding the   
best spot to apply the electroshocks. His hand stopped briefly above Jim's genitals.   
The man didn't even stir, and Brackett looked up into his eyes. "Nahhh, I'm not   
that cruel," he winked at Jim and moved to the end of the bed.   
  
The cold metal touched his bare toes. The first surge of current almost caused him   
to burst out into giggles.   
  
Seconds later, the intensity level sped up.  
  
***  
  
As exhausted as he was, Blair couldn't sleep. His mind whirled, jumping from one   
thought to the other, one fear substituted by the next, and an endless chain of   
'what ifs' expecting attention. He had sounded confident when he had talked to   
Jim, also when the doctor told him about the possibility of being blind forever Blair   
had stayed calm. But now? Lying on his bed, his brain had nothing better to do than   
to think, and that was what it did with bitter force.   
  
What time was it? Blair fought the urge to open his eyes. The bandages still   
covered his face and would have prevented any attempt to "see" anyway. Instead   
Blair concentrated on his hearing, trying to check his environment by compensating   
with his sense of sound.   
  
At first he only heard the annoying ticking of his watch laying on the nightstand;   
then a low buzzing reached his ear....his electric alarm clock probably. Blair heard   
Jim moving around the loft, going to the bathroom, water running. The older man   
went upstairs, his footsteps making little thumps on the steps.   
  
  
What would happened when his eyesight didn't return? The thought inexorably   
invaded his brain, and Blair grimaced when the familiarity of the question hit him.   
Hadn't Jim asked the same thing after he'd been affected by the Golden drug   
which had blinded him temporarily? Blair had uttered reassurances of hope and   
words of comfort contributing a great amount of faith and trust so Jim had   
managed to deal with his handicap. Surely, his enhanced senses had provided him   
with an advantage. A gift Blair didn't have. He wasn't even sure if he had a friend   
and a home anymore. Jim truly felt sorry for what had happened to Blair, he had   
tried to apologize, but Blair couldn't bear a friendship that might be based on pity   
only.   
  
"Come on, Sandburg, stop the pity party," the anthropology student muttered under   
his breath, cursing himself for his weakness, for dwelling on self-pity. That was   
definitely not his style but....   
  
Blair had never felt so alone.   
  
The young man sighed, and slowly got out of his bed. His injured ribs didn't like the   
idea, but he only winced and moved carefully. He didn't bother to search for his   
shoes and headed for the door. He was thirsty, probably due to all the medication   
they'd pumped into his body. Tapping through his dark universe, Blair tried to   
recall the outlines of the loft; he had often moved around the apartment without   
turning the lights on, so it was'nt a big deal, right?   
  
"Damnit!" Blair exclaimed in a low, strained voice when his thigh hit the corner of   
the kitchen table. In the same breath he added apologetically: "Sorry, Jim,"   
assuming the Sentinel had heard his gasp of pain and curse. "I'm okay."   
  
Surprisingly, he received no comment from the upstairs bedroom.   
  
Eventually, Blair reached the refrigerator and blindly searched for something to   
drink. Sensing the shape of a bottle of orange juice, his hand grasped the bottle   
and took a long, refreshing sip. Leaning against the closed doors of the fridge, Blair   
forced his racing brain to calm down.   
  
Think simple, think of something ordinary! Think of...a grocery list. A bizarre thing   
to think about, but maybe exactly the right boring, unimportant task to occupy his   
mind with.   
  
Returning to the table he'd hit minutes ago, Blair sat down, his hands finding a   
sheet of paper and a pen - like it had been left there just for him.   
  
  
  
His handwriting was probably indecipherable, but with utmost care, the student   
almost drew the letters on the paper: TOMATOES, ORANGE JUICE, BUTTER,   
NOODLES. Blair's thoughts sifted through the mental list he was composing. TEA,   
BROCCOLI.   
  
"I hope you'll be able to piece it together, Jim," Blair murmured and folded the   
piece of paper twice in the middle before he stored it into the pocket of the   
sweatpants he was wearing to bed. He didn't feel better, not at all, his head still   
hurt, but his brain wasn't so focussed on one single thought anymore.   
  
Leaving the table, Blair made it back to his room without hurting himself or   
rearranging the furniture. Progress came in little steps.   
  
His ears picked up a moan. Blair stopped and stood perfectly still to detect were   
the sound was coming from. His hearing had already compensated for the lack of   
sight, and Blair knew when he heard the second moan it originated from upstairs.   
Jim's bedroom.   
  
Blair didn't hesitate. One chair got into his way, thumping loudly when it hit the   
floor. Blair didn't care this time. The moaning sounds increased in volume, not   
screams actually, but the agony from someone - Jim - suffering a terrible pain was   
clearly audible.   
  
"Jim?" Blair shouted, stumbling through the living-room. Where were the damn   
stairs?   
  
"Jim, are you okay, man?" Hitting another item, Blair went still for a moment,   
concentrating and remembering one of his own lectures.   
  
Listen to the way the sound reverberates in the room. Sound waves bounce off   
solid objects, and you can approximate the size, the shape and distance of an   
object by an echo. Blair clapped his hands.   
  
Blair's left foot made contact with the first step, and the anthropologist grabbed   
the railing. He steadily climbed up to his friend's bedroom where the moans were   
growing louder and more painful. Reaching the upper level, Blair drew a mental   
picture of what his ears told him.   
  
Jim hadn't answered his calls. That he didn't hear him was not an option, unlikely,   
like snow in July. If he was suffering a ....real pain like a cramp or worse, he would   
have tried to call for help. Even a stubborn James Ellison would do that. So, it must   
be something else. A sensory problem.   
  
The moans alternated between sudden gasps of pain and small whimpers, increasing   
in volume from time to time, and Blair suddenly comprehended the Sentinel was   
once again tormented by a dreadful, mind-destroying nightmare.   
  
His knees connected with the bed and Blair bent slightly forward. He flinched in   
shock when his hands touched the moaning figure. Jim's whole body was painfully   
tensed up, flesh and muscles stretched to breaking point, and he didn't respond to   
Blair's touch.   
  
"Jim, come on, man, don't do this to me," Blair said softly. "I don't know what's   
going on, but whatever it is you have to snap out of it." At no point did Blair let his   
voice show the fear he felt and, determined but still gentle, he continued. "You're   
just dreaming, Jim, and if you come back to me, you'll see that you're safe here and   
nothing's gonna hurt you." He reached out and touched Jim's face, his lips, cheeks,   
nose and, finally, his eyes which were squeezed tight as if the older man was living a   
horrible ordeal.   
  
The Sentinel moaned again then whimpered, and Blair whispered: "It's okay, Jim.   
I'm here. I'll protect you. When you can hear me, concentrate on my voice." The   
young man crawled on the bed, wincing at the pain in his side, but never ceasing the   
soothing murmur.   
  
"Listen to me, buddy. Follow the sound of my voice."   
  
After a few minutes of hypnotic stroking and softly spoken words of comfort, Blair   
sensed a change in Jim's breathing pattern, the tensed muscles relaxing slowly and   
the pain-filled moaning subsiding.   
  
"That's it," Blair praised. "You're doing very good, Jim."   
  
Life came back into Jim, and he rolled his head from one side to the other. A sigh   
escaped his lips. It was nothing more than a tiny bit of exhaled air mixed with a   
combination of letters, no one but a blind Guide would understand.   
  
"Blair..."   
  
"I'm right here, my friend", Blair sent a quick prayer of heartfelt thanks to the   
powers that be and tenderly brushed over the detective's face.   
  
"Blair...." Jim whispered again, and a few tears slipped out of the corner of his eyes,   
tickling down his cheeks until the gentle, warm hands of his Guide stopped their   
trail.   
  
  
Blair felt the moisture on his fingers, and he caressed his friend's face like a   
mother would her child's. "You're safe, Jim. It's okay now." Another tear. "Come   
on, Jim, open your eyes."   
  
With his own eyes blind, Blair realized for the first time now that he hadn't even   
tried to 'see' what he was doing. His heart had led the way and suddenly the   
anthropologist was absolutely sure he would fight his fate. One way or another.   
  
"Nooooo!" Jim bolted upright, his eyes now wide open. His breath came in short   
gasps, and Blair shrunk back a bit to give him the space he needed.   
  
It took another few moments before the Sentinel became aware of his   
surroundings again. His bed, his room.... Brackett! Jim's heart started racing again,   
remembering the helplessness and fear. His eyes searched his bedroom for any sign   
of the intruder.   
  
"Jim? You okay?" Blair's low voice startled him, although Jim had sensed his   
presence even before the terrible nightmare had released him. He turned his head,   
spotting his young friend sitting beside him on the bed. The white bandages shone   
eerie in the dim light of the night and with his heightened sense of sound, Jim   
could hear Blair's pulse beating as wildly as his own.   
  
"I'm fine," Jim replied, still puzzled and dazed about what had happened again.   
  
Blair flinched inwardly at the answer, recollecting all to well the standard reply   
Ellison had supplied him with the last couple of days. He was always fine, certainly,   
but Blair had learnt his lesson and this time didn't press the subject.   
  
"Okay," he simply said, not wanting to show is concern and own fears, and he   
carefully climbed out of Jim's bed. He had moved towards the stairs, when Jim's   
voice penetrated the silence.   
  
"Wait!"   
  
Blair heard the rustling of bed covers, and then Jim's strong hand took his arm in a   
gentle grip.   
  
"Here, let me help you," the soft voice spoke into his ear, and Blair was grateful for   
the supporting arm. They walked downstairs in silence, crossing the living-room, and   
eventually entering Blair's bedroom.   
  
  
  
  
"Thanks, " Blair said, allowing Jim to help him into bed and to even draw up the   
covers to his chin. Immediately, Blair rolled onto his right side, to ease the   
pressure on his cracked ribs and hoped sleep would finally catch up with him.   
  
"Night, Chief," Jim wished and, from the reverberating sound, Blair could tell he   
was already standing in the doorway.   
  
"Night, Jim," Blair mumbled and listened closely to noises Jim made. He hadn't left   
the room yet and Blair knew he was watching him. For a single moment, Blair wanted   
to see the look on his friend's face, to read the emotion written there. Pity,   
concern or just annoyance? Jim still hadn't moved and Blair was about to utter a   
joking remark when he sensed movement near his bed.   
  
Jim sat down on the edge of Blair's small bed, and the anthropologist shifted a bit   
to give him more room - literally and figuratively.  
  
"How are you feeling?" Jim asked.   
  
Blair shrugged. "Okay, I guess, except for the fact that my body hurts and wants   
to sleep but my brain is working in overdrive," he admitted, waiting for the actual   
words Jim wanted to say. Apparently, the older man didn't know how to start, thus   
Blair jumped in with a counter-question.   
  
"What about you?"   
  
Silence. Then:   
  
"Okay, I guess, except for the fact that I'm slowly losing my mind," Jim replied   
with a small smile in his voice.   
  
Blair didn't say anything and waited, giving Jim time to overcome his very personal   
fear, time to open up.   
  
"I've been having these dreams," Jim began. "Nightmares." A shudder ran through   
his body like it was the most terrible word in the world to speak out loud. "I had a   
few nightmares after I returned from Peru. Post traumatic stress disorder, you   
know, reliving the crash and the death of my men night after night. I expected   
them, or better, I was told it might happen. I understood that my brain needed to   
digest the ordeal and searched for a way to let off steam, to ban the bad   
memories." Jim sighed. Then he shook his head. "This time, it's different.   
The...nightmares are so real, like nothing I've ever experienced before." The man   
went silent, and Blair's calm voice spoke up.   
  
  
"What are those dreams about?"   
  
Jim let out a cheerless laugh.   
  
"They always start the same way," he explained. "I'm chained down to an   
examination table and our old friend, Lee Brackett conducts funny little   
experiments to check the range of my sensory abilities. I'm totally helpless and   
can't do anything to prevent it from happening."  
  
Blair could hear the fear in Jim's words, and he asked gently: "What does he do?"  
  
Jim hesitated again for a second. Why was it so hard to talk about it?   
  
"The first night he used a dog whistle to test my hearing...," Jim began.   
  
"Dog whistle?" Blair repeated. "That's why you reacted so violently in the park   
yesterday when the guy blew his whistle!" The pieces of the puzzle seemed to make   
sense.   
  
"Yeah, I think,...my brain remembered the pain the whistle inflicted when I dreamt   
about it and I completely zoned-out then," Jim continued and rubbed a hand over   
his face. He looked at Blair in surprise when the young man struggled to sit up.   
  
"Wait a second, Jim! Are you saying you actually felt the pain when Brackett used   
the whistle on you?" Puzzlement swung in his voice.   
  
Jim nodded, then, remembering Blair couldn't see it, voiced the confirmation.   
  
"Yes, it hurt like hell, why?" He took Blair's arm, helped him sit up, and, using the   
pillow to support his back, made him more comfortable.   
  
"Jim, dreams usually are a result of emotions like fear, anger or joy we deal with in   
our lives. When you have trouble coming to terms with a difficult situation,   
something that bothers you, your subconscious works on it while you're sleeping.   
That's why we have dreams or nightmares from time to time," Blair started his   
lecture with newly-awakened enthusiasm in his voice. "However, these things are   
just emotional expressions and you aren't supposed to feel physical pain. You body is   
in neutral gear, if you like."   
  
Blair thought for a moment. "So, my guess is that it definitely has to do with your   
senses. The thought of Brackett knowing about your Sentinel powers is scaring   
you." Jim flinched a little at Blair's choice of words. "It's a feeling you would like   
to ban from your memory, but your subconscious knows about it and brings it up in   
  
your dreams." He chewed on his lower lip, deep in thought. "That doesn't explain   
why you're feeling the pain though."   
  
Jim chuckled. "Don't tell me you're clueless, Sandburg."   
  
Blair shook his head. "Let me think for a moment."   
  
"Be my guest," Jim shrugged and watched his young friend in amazement. He swore   
he could see the thoughts racing through Sandburg's mind like a whirlwind through   
the desert, picking up everything he could get a hold of.   
  
Blair's face lit up, he smiled, and Jim knew he had just found a scientific answer to   
all his problems. Sandburg always found a scientific way to explain things. "Jim..."   
the anthropologist began slowly, still trying to formulate the sentence while this   
thoughts already jumped to the next step. "Jim, your senses are warning you...."  
  
"Oh really? Why don't they just say don't walk when the lights are red?" Jim cut in   
sarcastically.   
  
Unimpressed, Blair nodded. "If you think about it, they do just that! Although we   
aren't talking about traffic lights here." He paused for a moment, hesitating as it   
seemed to Jim.   
  
"What?" the Sentinel probed.   
  
"Uhm, I'm sorry to bring this up again, Jim, but...." Blair stopped, and Jim patted   
his leg through the blanket.   
  
"Come on, Chief, you can tell me everything. Spit it out," he smiled, cursing himself   
for the umpteenth time for this mute gesture.   
  
"The last time you had sensory spikes like this, well, sort of, was when you   
met...Lyla." Blair didn't see Jim's smile fading at the mention of his former   
girlfriend. He flinched mentally at the remembrance and swallowed hard. Sensing   
the effect his words must have on Jim, Blair continued slowly, carefully choosing   
his words in order not to revive old pains.   
  
"Every time you saw her, your senses went haywire and you said yourself that your   
senses were warning you. They worked like an alarm system and I think that's the   
same situation we're dealing with now."   
  
Jim shook his head to dismiss the bad memories.   
  
  
"Maybe you're right but that's not all...", he replied when he had his emotions and   
voice under control again. He cleared his throat, and told Blair about the real-life   
incidents that had occurred after his nightmares.   
  
Silence hung between the two men after Jim finished this story. One still   
captivated by the terror of the dreams, the other seeking explanations where   
there were none. Logic failed and the heart took over. Blair reached out and his   
hands touched Jim's arm, a gentle gesture of comfort.   
  
"Let me sum it up once more, " Blair said. "You dream about Brackett tormenting   
your hearing and the next morning a dead body with ruptured eardrums is found;   
after that Brackett over-stimulates your sight and...I got hurt in an explosion, my   
eyes injured." Jim nodded grimly, not bothering to voice his motion this time. Blair   
could feel the muscles under his hands tense up like steal.   
  
"It's okay, Jim. It's not your fault," Blair whispered. "So tonight you were exposed   
to electroshocks but, as far as we know, no one has been harmed yet."  
  
Jim sighed. "We don't know that, Chief. It could be happening right now. Some poor   
fellow could be dying." The Sentinel escaped Blair's gentle grip and stood, pacing   
through the small bedroom. "I don't get it," he muttered. "If the senses are   
warning me, why this way?" 'Why do you have to suffer, Blair?' he added in his   
mind.   
  
"Jim, by sending out the message that something will happen, your senses are   
warning you to be careful. It's not about you being responsib-..." Abruptly, Blair   
stopped when the familiarity of the sentence hit him.   
  
'This is not about you.'   
  
"This is not about you," he repeated out loud, mesmerized by the quizzical words of   
a little black kitten hiding in a dark alley to talk to stranded anthropologist.   
  
"I hear you, Chief, but..."  
  
"Nonono, I mean, it's not that you are asked to protect someone, or to save a life."   
Blair carefully crawled out of bed and stood in front of Jim, blind but now seeing   
with the wisdom of the Spirit Guide inside him.   
  
"They're telling you to take care of yourself. The Sentinel is in danger and your   
senses are trying to protect you," Blair concluded.   
  
  
  
The young man didn't catch Jim's incredulous glance, disbelief reflecting on his   
face, blue eyes full of uncertainty and, again, fear. The detective studied his   
Guide's face that was half covered with bruises and bandages. The inevitable truth   
was screaming at him he had failed, he had feared, and he hadn't believed. Jim   
closed his eyes. Mental images of the jungle rushed through his mind. The panther   
that became the Shaman and then himself filled his head. Fear ravaged his being,   
enveloped by shadows leading the wrong way, making devastating decisions. And   
eventually, the light broke through the sky, the panther's fur glistened like black   
gold, providing courage, faith and hope.   
  
Dazed, Jim opened his eyes, his mind whirling back from its excursion. Blair was   
still standing in front of him, waiting, hoping and caring. Jim placed his hands on the   
young anthropologist's shoulder, squeezing gently but firmly.   
  
"Tomorrow we'll do some detective's work, " Jim announced, while he tenderly   
directed Blair back to his bed. "Let's see what my senses have to say about it."   
  
***  
  
Simon Banks was not pleased with the idea of dismissing one detective from a   
current investigation and replacing him with another; Detective Brown was not   
pleased because he suddenly found himself pushed aside, as Ellison and Sandburg   
now worked on his case; and on top of it, Jim Ellison was not pleased because his   
young and blind partner insisted on coming with him. Danger be prepared, we're   
coming, Jim thought angrily when they left Major Crimes, the worried glance of his   
friend and captain piercing his back.   
  
The day had already turned out bad because the captain had requested a good   
explanation as to why Jim wanted so desperately to check out the place where the   
victim with the ruptured eardrums, James McMillan, had been found. Of course,   
neither Jim nor Blair could provide a logical answer, and Simon had very reluctantly   
given them the case file.   
  
The old warehouse area made for the perfect crime scene, Jim pondered grimly,   
when he walked through long corridors, crossed former manufacturing halls,   
distribution departments and another long corridor leading deeper into the   
complex. Blair was steadily walking beside him, one of his hands lightly resting on   
Jim's arm for guidance. He had lost his orientation completely, too many twists and   
turns, but he trusted the man at his side with his life.   
  
"What is this place?" Blair wondered aloud, and he felt Jim's shrug.   
  
  
  
"Looks like a former production company," the older man described their location,   
scanning the place with his senses while approaching another iron-cast door. Jim   
stopped suddenly when his sense of smell picked up a well-known scent.   
  
"You got something, Jim?" Blair deciphered the sudden stop correctly and withdrew   
his hand.   
  
"Are you wearing my aftershave, Sandburg?" Jim questioned with raised eyebrows,   
taking a good whiff of the Sandburg Zone.   
  
Aftershave? Blair shrugged, making a apologetic gesture. "Sorry, man, I must have   
grabbed the wrong bottle this morning," he tried to explain.   
  
"Well, don't make it a habit, 'cause I don't wanna have to try the mosquito pee you   
use," Jim growled with a grin in his voice.   
  
"Veeery funny, Jim," Blair replied dryly. "Very funny."   
  
"So why aren't you laughing?" Jim teased, and his hand grasped the door handle.  
  
He had barely touched the iron handle when a powerful electric surge burnt   
through his body! Jim screamed in pain, shaking violently with each shock. Waves of   
fire ravaged his cramping muscles, while the current spread the agony through his   
convulsing body, seeking grounding to release its unsparing strength. The ordeal   
stopped after just a few seconds. The Sentinel collapsed, every nerve in his limbs   
hurting, flinching in reflex of the aftershock. He heard Blair yelling something, but   
he couldn't make his brain work up a reply, or even realize his muscles were   
paralyzed.  
  
***  
  
The solitude of the loft was disturbed by the persistent ringing of the telephone.   
With no one there to answer the call, the machine picked it up after a moment.   
  
"Hi, Ellison and Sandburg here. We can't come to the phone right now, but if you   
leave a message, we'll call you back."   
  
Following the beep, a male voice filled the air: "Blair, this is Jack Kelso. I've   
received some disturbing news regarding Lee Brackett. Please call me back as soon   
as you can."   
  
Click.  
  
  
***  
  
Jim's scream of pain still echoed in Blair's ears. He shouted his name, but an   
answer never came. The young man dropped to his knees beside his hurting friend,   
groping for him, over and over calling his name.   
  
"Jim! Come on, man, don't do this to me now," Blair pleaded with a panic-filled voice.   
All he knew was that Jim lay on the floor, unmoving, and whimpering softly. It had   
sounded like.... Blair shook his head. What kind of sound had it been?   
  
If he could only see!  
  
"Damn it!" Blair cursed and reached for the bandages covering his eyes, ripping   
them off in one fierce motion. Sudden light pierced through his closed eyelids and   
Blair covered his eyes with both hands. Carefully, he peered through his fingers   
when the pain subsided.   
  
Blair saw nothing but brightness, occasionally veined by dark shapes when an object   
came into his range of sight. Not much, but it was a start. He could make out Jim's   
prone form on the ground.  
  
The big puddle of grey and black pixels in front of him didn't move, and Blair   
tentatively touched his hand and arm, speaking softly to the injured man.   
  
Finally, Jim responded, but it was only a few moaning words. "Blair..., h-hurts..."   
Involuntarily, he began to tremble. "I...can't move."   
  
The blood ran cold in Blair's veins at Jim's words, and he searched his jacket for   
the cell phone. "Hang in there, Jim," Blair said when he found the phone in one of   
Jim's pockets. "I'm calling an ambulance." The numbers were only blurs of shadowy   
grey colors.   
  
"Don't bother to even try, Mr. Sandburg," a familiar male voice spoke behind his   
back. "The electric surge Detective Ellison received should have destroyed the cell   
phone."   
  
Blair spun around, blinking at the sight of Lee Brackett!   
  
Jim eyes fluttered open, his brain sending out the message to move and jump at the   
enemy's throat, but his body didn't cooperate. Jim moaned when his muscles   
cramped again. "You son of a bitch," he brought over his lips.   
  
  
  
Brackett casually pointed a gun at the two men, knowing too well that neither of   
them was a match for him. In his left hand he carried a briefcase - at least, Blair   
thought it looked like a briefcase.   
  
"What took you so long, boys?" the ex-CIA man asked, something like faked worry   
evident in his voice. "I expected you two days ago, Ellison." He shook his head in   
disappointment. "Did you catch my little hint?"   
  
Leaving Jim's side, Blair stood. His vision was still more than fuzzy but he knew he   
spoke into the man's face. "Two days ago?" Blair repeated, hoping Brackett   
wouldn't realize he could hardly see. "So you killed James McMillan?" he concluded   
and his opponent just chuckled.   
  
"Ingenious idea, wasn't it? You know, Mr. Sandburg, since I know about Ellison's   
little secret I thought I should come up with something inventive to get his   
attention." He looked over at Jim who returned his cold stare likewise. "I watched   
you guys and must say you reacted quite strangely and I feared for your sanity."   
Brackett's glance darted back to Blair. "What happened to your eyes, professor?"  
  
"Wh--at do ...you want, Brackett?" Jim's weak voice demanded, inducing Blair to   
return to his side in an instant, taking his hand and squeezed gently.   
  
Anger replacing fear, Blair shouted at Brackett. "Answer him!"  
  
"Temper, temper, Mr. Sandburg," Brackett warned and put the briefcase down.   
"Don't you want to know how I escaped from prison, gentlemen?" Receiving no   
answer, Brackett shrugged and with one foot shoved the briefcase towards Jim and   
Blair. "Let's just say, I have some friends in high positions who helped me out."  
  
Blair stared at the black briefcase, not bothering to ask the question, his hand still   
enveloping Jim's.   
  
Brackett followed his glance. "The only reason for my sudden return into your   
lives..." He grinned evilly. "...is that I need your help again, Detective. I know, I   
know, our last encounter ended rather unpleasantly, but you gave me a stunning   
insight of what you can do with those extraordinary senses of yours."   
  
He pointed at the briefcase. "I managed - " he smiled again. "to get my hands on   
some top-secret government documents. You won't be surprised to hear that I've   
already found a buyer, but before I can hand over the documents, I need you to   
open the briefcase for me. The lock is connected to a fine security system which in   
turn is a attached to a small explosive device that will go off the second someone   
tries to open the briefcase without using the appropriate code number. Of course,   
  
I don't know the number, but I've been told the lock works like a simple safe   
combination: The moment you hear the little click, you've found the right number,   
and we all will live happily ever after."  
  
"Oh," Brackett added as if it had just come to mind, "It goes without saying that   
this device is extremely sensitive and any minute variation will set it off."   
  
"Forget it, Brackett," Jim spat.   
  
Lee Brackett discharged the safety of his gun and aimed it at Blair's head. "I can   
blow out his brains right here in front of you, if you'd prefer," he threatened.   
  
"He can't move, you moron!" Blair challenged, knowing all too well that Brackett   
would kill them as soon as the briefcase was open.   
  
Brackett nodded understandingly. "Yes, unfortunately he reacted a bit strongly to   
the power surge I connected to the door." He waved with the gun. "Okay, Ellison,   
tell Mr. Sandburg what to do."   
  
"WHAT?" Blair gasped, not believing what he'd just heard. That was impossible.   
  
Brackett produced a watch. "You have exactly five minutes before I lose my   
patience." He didn't tell them that he had to catch a plane to meet his customer.   
He dangled the watch. "The famous five minutes."   
  
Blue eyes exchanged glances of fear and comfort, and Jim closed his own minutely.   
"I'll see and hear for you, and you'll feel for me. Piece of cake!" the Sentinel said   
and inhaled deeply. Blair hesitated, fear knotting his stomach so that he thought he   
had to be sick. Jim saw the distress painted on the young man's face and his next   
words soothed his churned up soul.   
  
"Trust me, Blair. I'll get you out of here."   
  
If you put your faith in him, he won't let you down. Blair nodded and made himself   
comfortable in front of the briefcase, legs stretched out, hands carefully touching   
the locks.   
  
"Your time's running," Brackett announced, but the two men didn't pay attention.   
  
Jim turned up his hearing - no fears anymore - and started filtering out the   
background noises. "Okay, Chief, turn the right handle a to the left, only a few   
millimetres." Blair's hands trembled but he switched the lock.   
  
  
"More."   
  
"Just a little bit more... Just a bit...," Jim instructed, listening intensely to the   
faint sounds the turning of the handle made. His hearing was dialed up to the   
highest, most sensitive level.   
  
Carefully, like it would break at the slightest touch, Blair moved the handle. He   
flinched when Jim's voice stopped him.   
  
"Hold it!" There was a sudden sharpness in the Sentinel's voice. Abruptly, but not   
soon enough, Blair stopped. He threw a startled and yet questioning glance at his   
friend.   
  
"You turned it too far," Jim said softly, his voice not accusing but reassuring to try   
again.   
  
"I'm sorry," Blair apologized, drying his sweaty palms on his pants.   
  
The smile Jim gave him didn't cease the trembling, but the young man calmed down   
visibly. "It's not your fault," Jim soothed. "You'll have to turn it all the way to the   
left now to reach the starting point again." He winked, the only movement he could   
perform. "Slowly now. Don't try to turn it backwards," he warned gently.   
  
Blair took a deep breath. The handle reached its original point, and Blair moved it   
further to the left side.   
  
"Easy..." Jim's voice was barely a whisper as he concentrated on his sense of sound.   
Blair briefly closed his eyes, as they were hurting from the intense staring at the   
locks now.   
  
Jim focused. There was the famous click. "That's it."   
  
"You're doing good, Blair," Jim praised. "We are almost done. Onto the left handle   
now." He threw a look at Brackett who was concentrating on the young man as he   
moved the left handle.   
  
"Easy, buddy. Not so fast. I can't keep up," Jim warned and gained a surprised   
glance from his partner. Sending out a disguised message, Jim hoped Blair would   
understand and slow down the process. Dialing up his hearing, Jim's ears had picked   
up the very distant sound of approaching sirens. The cavalry would arrive, and the   
only thing he had to do now was buy enough time to let them invade the place   
without Brackett noticing. After all, Simon Banks' sense of timing worked like a   
charm. Jim heard the sirens fading, meaning they were near.   
  
"You okay, Jim?" Blair asked, his hands ceasing the movements.   
  
Very good, Blair, Jim thought. Aloud he replied: "My hearing is playing tricks on   
me."   
  
Blair's hands left the handles and he turned to his partner. "Remember your   
breathing, Jim. Relax and...."   
  
"STOP IT!" Brackett's shout interrupted, and Jim winced at the loud sound.   
Brackett indicated with the gun. "You'd better hurry."  
  
"CASCADE POLICE! PUT THE GUN DOWN!" The familiar voice of Simon Banks rang   
through the air. Lee Brackett froze in shock, an expression of total disbelief   
crossing his face, mouth open at the thought that his brilliant plan had failed.   
Again. He turned his head and realized his defeat. The gun dropped to the floor.   
  
Jim released his breath loudly, and Blair joined him in unison.   
  
***  
  
A satisfied sigh escaped Ellison's lips when he beat on his pillow to make himself   
more comfortable. The events of the last few days had drained him more than he   
dared to admit to himself, and Jim was relieved that it had all turned out okay. The   
good guys won, the bad guy was brought to justice - the world was back in order. He   
still had to thank Simon for his witted reaction to send back-up to the warehouse,   
after Jack Kelso had informed him about Brackett's escape. Tomorrow...  
  
Jim glanced at his clock - 3.12 a.m. - and sighed again. Hopefully, Simon would grant   
him his vacation request. A few days to relax was exactly the thing he was so   
looking forward to. His muscles had regained full function after a few hours, so   
that was not the problem. He just wanted to make an escape of his own. Sandburg   
needed some downtime, too, and maybe they would go up north, fishing, camping,   
sitting around a crackling fire when the night set in, all the good stuff. Sandburg   
would probably bring his obscure fishing spear again. With a cheeky grin on his   
face, Jim closed his eyes. He would never catch one single fish....  
  
"LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU HEADCASE!!!!"   
  
Instantly on alert, Jim grabbed his gun, eyes adjusting to the darkness, ears   
picking up the scream from downstairs. The Sentinel jumped out of bed. He ran   
downstairs, scanning the loft while he made his way through the living room. There   
was nobody else present other than himself and his roommate.   
  
  
Blair's voice broke off, and outside his bedroom, Jim could clearly make out his   
Guide's racing heartbeat. His breathing was disturbed, fast, like he had been   
startled by something. Apparently, Blair tried his utmost to hide his emotional   
outburst from the rest of the world.   
  
From Jim.   
  
Jim lightly knocked at the closed bedroom door.   
  
"Hey, Chief, is everything okay?" His voice was gentle.   
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, Jim. Sorry," Blair reassured in a heart-breaking voice, tiny   
and scared.   
  
"May I come in?" Jim asked, before he opened the door and poked his head inside.   
  
"You're already in," Blair murmured, burying his face deep in the pillow, when Jim   
stepped into the small bedroom. The detective put the gun on the nightstand and   
gingerly sat down on the edge of Blair's bed like so many times before.   
  
Like so many times before.   
  
"Bad dream?" Jim asked sympathetically. He reached out to touch Blair's shoulder   
but stopped mid-motion when Blair's heart rate increased. What the heck...? Jim   
finished the gesture and place his hand on the young man's shoulder. He could feel   
almost imperceptible tremors wracking the small body of his partner.   
  
Brown curls flew when Blair violently shook his head, his hands tightening around   
the blanket, pulling it further up. A cocoon of fear.   
  
"I'm sorry, Jim," was the only reply he got. Almost inaudible.   
  
Subtly, Jim rubbed the shoulder, squeezing, and trailing down to the back. "What's   
wrong, Blair?" he repeated, massaging the muscles. Even through the heavy blanket,   
he could feel the tension building up there.   
  
"I didn't mean to wake you...." Blair spoke into the pillow, tensing up even more.  
  
Jim was about to utter reassurances when a long forgotten conversation dawned to   
him. A conversation born of anger, rage and stubbornness. Nightmares...:  
  
"I was just trying to sleep, Sandburg. And that's very hard when you jump out of   
your skin every hour because your roommate has his shaky days."  
  
Remembering the brutal words he'd thrown at his Guide only two days ago, Jim   
shuddered with the thought of what one careless sentence had caused to the soul   
of his young friend. Words spoken in frustration to hide his own feelings, words   
intended to hurt, were words regretted now.   
  
"Hey...," Jim squeezed the shoulder and started to turn Blair over on his back. The   
anthropologist fought against it but, provided with greater strength, Jim easily   
pulled him over. "Blair, come on. Look at me."   
  
Blair looked up to Jim. Wordlessly, Jim opened his arms and after a moment's   
hesitation, Blair sat up. His arms went around the Sentinel's back, hugging him   
firmly.   
  
Their nightmare was over.   
  
***  
  
Epilogue - the next morning   
  
Blair Sandburg stormed out of his bedroom, struggling to zip up his jeans and tuck   
in his red shirt at the same time. His shoe laces were loose and ready to be tripped   
on, his hair an unruly mess. The frame of his glasses was caught between his teeth   
because he needed both hands to accomplish the task of getting his clothes   
together.   
  
"Hurry up, Sandburg," Jim yelled from the kitchen. A cup of steaming hot coffee   
stood on the counter along with some toast and two apples. "Even with Simon's okay   
on my vacation request, we still have to do grocery shopping before we leave for our   
extended weekend trip!" He took a sip from his own cup and watched as Blair   
stopped in his tracks, suddenly thinking of something.   
  
"I've-ma'dea-lst," he spoke between the glasses, turning on his heel, and headed   
back to his bedroom.   
  
"You did what?" Jim shouted, more amused than confused at his friend's odd   
morning behavior. Lack of sleep added to his clumsiness, and Jim grinned broadly.   
  
Blair rushed back into his bedroom, rummaging through his bedcovers, searching   
for his sweatpants. After turning the fourth layer of blankets, Blair found the   
clothes and grabbed into the pocket, letting out a triumphant "I got it", when he   
found the crumpled grocery list he had written days ago.   
  
  
  
He winced at the almost undecipherable handwriting, reminding him painfully of the   
incident that had lead to his blindness. His vision was still not a hundred percent   
but with his glasses on, it was manageable. Blair nodded, remembering writing down   
most items.   
  
"You had no sense of direction, Blair," he murmured to himself when he realized   
that he had apparently also written onto the backside of the paper. Shaking his   
head, Blair turned the sheet.   
  
His eyes went wide. Jim's neat handwriting covered half of the paper. Apparently,   
he had started writing something down earlier and Blair had just happened to get it   
into his hands when he was in the market for a piece of paper to compose his   
grocery list. Blair shrugged and folded the paper to put it into the pocket of his   
jeans when his eyes caught his name on top of it.   
  
It was a letter. A letter Jim had written to him. Reading the first line, Blair   
swallowed hard. The Sentinel must have written it two nights ago after they had   
their nasty fight and Blair had left the loft.   
  
Blair,   
I don't know what to say. You've just stormed out of   
the loft with every reason to be ticked off at me, with   
every reason to break up our friendship. I'm a   
complete idiot. I hurt your feelings and now I'm   
sitting here trying to bring my thoughts onto paper. I   
don't want you to leave. My words are not as   
eloquent as yours, writing isn't my strength really, but   
I want you to know that I need you. I hope we'll be   
okay in the morning. The hurt in your eyes was   
unbearable and I should have apologized right away.   
But you know me. I want to see the light in your eyes   
again, Chief. I'm s---.  
  
The writing became unreadable, and Blair figured sleep must have finally caught up   
with his friend before he could finish this silly letter.   
  
"Sandburg! Get your ass in gear and let's go!" Jim's charming words reached his   
ears and Blair stuffed the letter/grocery list into his pocket, dazed and confused.   
  
"I'm going!" Jim threatened from the kitchen and Blair could hear the lock of the   
front door clicking when Jim turned the key.   
  
  
The young man walked out into the living-room. Jim grabbed Blair's leather jacket   
and turned to throw it over to the anthropologist. He stopped his movement when   
he saw Blair standing in the middle of the room, staring at him intensely, looking   
into his eyes with the knowledge of a Sentinel's Guide.   
  
"What is it?" Jim asked, smiling and returning the staring gaze.   
  
Today, the colours of truth, regret and friendship were painted crystal blue.  
  
The End.  
  
  
  



End file.
